


Presumptions

by the_wordbutler



Series: Motion Practice [42]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Legal Drama, Multi, dynamic tagging, motion practice universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 79,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In law, there are all types of presumptions:  innocence, sanity, validity, paternity.  Rebuttable presumptions you can beat with good evidence.  Conclusive presumptions that, once triggered, can't be undone.</p><p>In his private life, Tony relies on a little presumption of his own:  namely, that his life will keep being happy and healthy.  That it'll keep making sense, day in and day out.</p><p>Turns out, that's a presumption you can definitely overcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kids, Not-Kids, and Other Important Designations

**Author's Note:**

> As previously stated in other disclaimers: the following story is a work of fiction. I was a law student when I started this series almost four years ago, and most of my inspiration stemmed from an internship at an office not unlike the Suffolk County District Attorney's Office. While I am now an attorney, my career's taken me away from prosecution and into a different legal niche, but I still draw a lot on my internship experience while writing these stories.
> 
> That said, any similarity in this story to real people, places, events, or cases is entirely incidental. Nothing in this story is based directly off anything I've worked on. At no time have I lifted real cases, scenarios, or people from my work life and deposited them into this series, and I won’t be doing so.
> 
> Along those lines, too, please keep in mind: this is fiction. Although some of the law featured in this story is based on the real law of my jurisdiction, I have done very little additional research. Legal concepts may be oversimplified, under-nuanced, or simply wrong for the purpose of the narrative. Some details may be incorrect or omitted. Nothing in this story purports to be legal advice of any kind.
> 
> This story involves characters which first appeared in Motion Practice. Reading the rest of the stories for context is not required but is always helpful. This story will spoil the events of pretty much all the previous stories. Read out of order at your own risk.
> 
> Special thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. They've stuck around for a really long time, and I don't know what I'd do without them.
> 
> This story will feature dynamic tagging, with characters and pairings added as they appear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony bickers with a second-grader and avoids the elephant in the room. Or rather, he justifies why he avoided the elephant to his husband, who definitely disapproves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I just said it, thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. To crib a line from an earlier story, they are the rocks upon which this universe is built.

"But I'm not tired," Amy insists, swaying on her feet like a drunken sailor back on land for the first time.

Or, more appropriately, like an over-tired, argumentative second grader desperate to stay up past her bedtime.

"Yeah, and those fiery pants of yours are just a coincidence," Tony retorts, and his kid wrinkles her nose as she dodges the hand that will undoubtedly nudge her toward the stairs. All around them, the living room languishes in post-party chaos, with enough empty Solo cups, balled-up napkins, and forgotten forks to transform the place into an abstract art exhibit. _Still life with cake crumbs_ , Tony decides, a testament to the excesses of modern teenage birthday parties.

But that particular disaster belongs to future Tony, a man who will inevitably sleep late before bitching about the debris all during clean-up. 

Present Tony plants his hands on his hips and glowers at an eight-year-old. "Amelia," he warns, "I'm not playing around."

Amy just huffs at him. "That's my in-trouble name," she says, as though he really needs the reminder. "Like how Uncle Bucky only calls Dot 'Dorothea' when he's really mad."

"And interestingly enough, Dorothea is not here to save your sassy behind from my wrath if you don't straighten up and fly right." Tony resolutely refuses to smile at Amy's confused little frown _or_ the adorable yawn that follows. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand like a toddler, and he sighs. "C'mon, short stack. You're tired. I'm tired. Our shared favorite parent is already upstairs in bed, waiting for me to tuck you in and join him. How about we cut our losses and—"

"But Miles and Teddy are still gone." He cocks an eyebrow at her, and she immediately tips to hide her face in the arm of the couch. Reasserting his title of laziest dog in the known universe, Dummy stretches out just far enough to nose her curls, and she reaches to stroke his head. Tony glares at the traitorous way the bastard wags his tail. "It's not fair that Teddy and Miles can stay up late and I need to go to bed," Amy continues complaining. "They're not even home yet. They need to come home."

"Yeah, and everything _I_ need is waiting for me in my marital bed," Tony mutters. Amy peeks out at him, still frowning, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. "The boys are both in double-digits. You, on the other hand, were born during George W. Bush's second term in office."

Her brow crumples. "What's that mean?"

"It means you're eight. Now, c'mon. Bed."

She huffs at him a second time, a habit clearly learned from her most favorite parent in the universe, but her distaste for the history lesson fades the second Tony strokes a hand over her head. "But—"

"Sorry, sweetheart, but you're all out of buts," he informs her, gently tugging her away from the couch. "Sleep."

She scrubs a hand over her face before nodding sleepily, her whole body tipping toward him as he guides her toward the stairs. Twice, he considers scooping her up and just carrying her, but his chiropractor's on vacation through next weekend and frankly, he likes being able to walk without excruciating pain. 

Meaning that he wraps an arm around his barnacle and joins in on her sleepy half-stagger.

Predictably, the front door bursts open before they're even halfway up the stairs.

"And the _ending_!" Miles announces, his voice enthusiastic enough to jerk both dogs away and bring them careening down the front hall. Amy lights up like a Christmas tree, slipping out of Tony's grip and barreling down after them. Tony groans as the noise transitions from distinct voices to a full-on cacophony.

"I'm not sure I signed up for all of this," he mutters. "Some of it, sure, but definitely not the whole kit and caboodle."

He trudges downstairs anyway.

"But no animals?" Amy asks as he joins the kids in the foyer, her head pillowed on Teddy's shoulder. Her brother grins and hikes her up on his hip as he toes off his shoes. "I thought you wanted to see a movie with animals."

"No, _you_ wanted to see a movie with animals," Miles corrects. "We wanted to see a movie with action."

"Actually, I wanted to see _This is Where I Leave You_ , but I invited a little kid." Miles scowls at Teddy, his expression instantly offended, and Teddy shrugs. "I'm just reminding you that _The Maze Runner_ was our last-ditch choice because you still look twelve."

"Yeah, but the important part's that you had an a- _maze_ -ing time." Both teens whip around to stare at Tony, and Miles actually blinks twice before groaning aloud. Tony props his shoulder against the wall and grins. "I'm glad nobody died in the purple clown car," he greets, "but your movie review's kind of keeping a certain little sister from our agreed-upon bedtime."

Amy screws her face up in a grimace. "I never agreed," she mutters, but she also hides from Teddy's warning look by burying her face in his shoulder. "I wanted to stay up until you came home."

"No, you wanted to be stubborn and sassy," Tony retorts, crossing his arms. "Now, tell the boys goodnight and come upstairs. _Without_ arguing, because I am totally at that part of the night where I'm willing to rely on divine intervention."

"And by divine intervention," Miles translates, "he means Bruce."

Amy heaves a sigh at the injustice of the whole ordeal, but she hugs Teddy around the neck before sliding down him like an amusement park ride. Miles ruffles her hair, almost smiling, and she purposely knocks into him as she walks up to Tony. "Next time," she says, "I want to stay up, too."

"I'll contact your union rep in the morning," Tony replies, and she nods as she finally drags herself up the stairs.

Still standing in the hallway, their jackets in piles on the floor, the boys glance at each other. After a few interminable seconds of silence, Miles shoves his hands in his pockets. "So, are we supposed to go to bed, or—"

Tony waves him off. "Please. You barely listen to me on your best days, never mind when you're hopped up on Mountain Dew and Sour Patch Kids. Just try not to trash the place, yeah?"

Teddy grins. "You're softening up in your old age, you know."

Miles snickers, but Tony just jabs a finger at his foster kid. "Don't push your luck, blondie," he warns, and leaves them laughing in the foyer.

It feels like a whole new decade by the time Amy's finally in bed with the lights off, and as much as the Tony of twenty years earlier cringes at the thought, walking into his dark, quiet bedroom feels like entering a sanctuary. Like returning home, really, complete with framed photos on the dresser, socks lying around the hamper in an asymmetrical halo, and the obscene number of hair and skin products cluttering the bathroom counter. 

But more important than all those little symbols of home—of a life well-lived, really—is the sight of his husband propped up in their bed. His glorious, ridiculous, beautiful husband, who sleeps with a book about the death penalty spread open on his bare chest, his glasses about ready to fall off his nose. Even messy-haired and sleep-rumpled, everything about him fills Tony with joy, and he loses full minutes to standing in the doorway and just admiring him.

Because here's the thing: you don't transition from a childhood of emotional anguish and arguable child abuse to an adulthood of reckless irresponsibility and self-abuse and still expect a sainted do-gooder with a heart the size of Eurasia to fall in love with you. And on his worst days (and really, even on some of the good ones), Tony still pinches himself right after waking, just in case.

The rest of the time, though, he basks in the way that loving Bruce warms his whole body and thanks whatever benevolent force in the universe allowed him this unprecedented second chance.

Bruce only stirs when Tony drops heavily onto the mattress, and Tony smiles at his hazy blinks and grumbling noises. He curls up close enough to press his nose into the softest part of Bruce's side. "Our children are snotty little merchants of destruction," he remarks, snaking an arm around his husband's middle. "At this point, I'm not sure even a disreputable sweatshop'd take them."

"Thank goodness for Craiglist," Bruce replies dryly, and Tony snorts as familiar fingers card through his hair. "I'm guessing everyone's home safe, then?"

"Despite Kate Bishop's best efforts, yes." For some reason, Bruce's chuckle feels soothing, almost like a lullaby. Tony closes his eyes. "But we've _got_ to do something about Amy's sassy streak before she transforms all the way into Dot's mini-me."

Bruce hums quietly. "Is this the part where I remind you that Amy's the older one, or do I just stick to the usual 'I told you this would happen?'"

"I'd prefer you comfort me in my hour of need with a little sexual healing, but if I _have_ to pick—" Bruce huffs, nudging him slightly with his hip, and Tony smiles against his skin. "I still think you're the bad influence, by the way."

"Citation needed," Bruce mutters, and Tony hides his laugh by burrowing closer.

They lie together for a while, Bruce still sliding his fingers through Tony's hair while Tony drifts between the real world and the righteous sleep of an over-exhausted parent. Eventually, Bruce flicks off the lamp and slides down far enough to rest his head on the pillow, but his breathing never really evens out.

Tony struggles to ignore him for ten whole minutes before he groans. "I can hear you," he grumbles, rubbing his eyes.

"Doing what?" Bruce wonders.

" _Thinking_." He snorts at that, a little half-hearted huff, and Tony rubs his eyes before forcing them open. "Turning me down for sexual healing is one thing," he complains, "but burning a hole in my head while you ponder the meaning of life is—"

"Did you talk to Phil?" 

Tony blinks at the totally left-field nature of the question, but as usual, Bruce just studies him, pursed lips and all. He holds his husband's gaze for a couple seconds before he shrugs. "In general, yes," he admits, "but if you're honing in on certain recent events—"

Sighing, Bruce rolls onto his back and scrubs a palm over his face. "Tony, we agreed after the hearing—"

"I know," he cuts in, and he ignores Bruce's truly skeptical half-glare to prop himself up on an elbow. "Trust me, big guy, I'm still absolutely dedicated to the cause, inevitable awkward silences and all. I just . . . " The words dry up on him for a second, victims of his exhaustion, and he shakes his head. "His not-kid walked tonight. And as much as I wanted to grill him about brother Barton and his merry band of miscreants, I couldn't steal that moment away from him. Not after P.J. _walked_."

Bruce purses his lips, his gaze drifting back up to the ceiling, and for a couple seconds, Tony braces himself for round fifteen of a weeks-old fight. But after a while, enough tension seeps out of Bruce's shoulders that Tony feels comfortable planting a hand on his chest—and better still, lying back down next to him. Bruce resists tipping into the touch for as long as possible, his resolve weakening in tiny intervals until he finally closes the distance between them.

Like almost every other night, Tony nuzzles his cheek against Bruce's shoulder and waits for him to settle. Tonight, though, he adds, "Might not be the same guy."

Bruce huffs a laugh. "Let me guess, you're also selling a bridge in Brooklyn?"

"Pretty sure it's already under contract, but I'll ask around." 

He rolls his eyes, and Tony loses a few long seconds to studying his expression in the near-dark. And not because he needs to catalogue the worry that creases the corners of his mouth or furrows his brow, either. No, Tony studies his husband because Bruce Banner is a masterpiece of nature, someone who loves him despite all of his faults, and a man like that deserves a partner who knows every last laugh and worry line like they're his own.

"Besides," he says after a few minutes, when Bruce's breathing sounds steady and level for the first time, "even if your enteral pessimism pans out, I'm pretty sure we've been through a lot worse."

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitches slightly. "Citation needed," he murmurs, and he smirks when Tony shoves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those folks who skipped over Sua Sponte or forgot plot details over my long hiatus: one of the people involved with the malfeasance at Barney's trailer park boasted a very familiar last name. _That_ is what Bruce wants Tony to ask Phil about.


	2. A Day (and a Night) in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, an uninvited phone call ruins Tony's otherwise mundane Monday. And while he tries to ignore how much the call stings, Bruce knows better. Actually, his whole family knows better. They're good at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Settlers of Catan is a fantastic board game, and I feel like it'd be a favorite among these competitive strategists (and Tony).
> 
> The poem from the final scene is Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice."
> 
> And thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, whose suggestions always improve every word.

"Dads! Amy's picking the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms again!"

Still just the wrong side of shrill thanks to the end stages of puberty, Miles's voice elbows its way out of the kitchen, charges up the stairs, and lands so firmly in the master bathroom that the kid might as well be standing in the doorway. Worse, it all settles into Tony's jaw like a bad toothache, and he sincerely considers banging his head against the nearest cabinet.

Dressed in nothing but his towel, Bruce shrugs. "You bought the cereal," he says around his toothbrush.

"Only because our children cannot live on all-organic extra-fiber Kashi alone," Tony mutters, but he flicks the last couple hairs into place anyway. 

Bruce smiles innocently, all irresistible laugh lines and rosy after-shower cheeks, and Tony immediately abandons all his Monday morning child-rearing responsibilities to lean over in kiss him. He tastes like mint and cold water—like the fresh mountain stream from a toothpaste commercial, really—and right away, he sighs against Tony's mouth. Tony capitalizes on the situation, running hands up his sides and crowding him against the countertop. And when the towel finally starts to slip, he shoves a thigh between Bruce's and kisses him harder.

Bruce, predictably, moans low in the back of his throat.

Equally predictably, Miles shouts, "Seriously, Dads, come _on_!"

The kiss dissolves into laughter with just a light side of absolute disbelief, and Tony presses their foreheads together while their breathing returns to normal. "You sure we're officially adopting the little one when they terminate her mom's rights?" he wonders aloud. "Because from where I'm standing, three kids feels like about three too many."

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Please go deal with Amy's cereal malfeasance."

Tony grins. "But what if I'd rather deal with—"

"Miles!" Amy shrieks from downstairs, and Tony groans as he abandons his plans to grope Bruce through his towel. He raises his hands as he steps away, proof of his pure intentions.

Bruce hides his smile by shaking his head. "I'll be down in a few minutes," he says.

"I'm just saying: we're already stuck with the big one until college and the middle one for life. If we want to cut our losses—"

" _Go_ ," Bruce instructs, whipping off his towel just to throw it at Tony.

Tony cackles, but he also listens like a well-trained trophy husband, grabbing his suit coat off the bed and jogging down the stairs into the kitchen. As usual, the place looks a little like a bank of school lockers just barfed all over the floor and counter, and he expertly dodges two backpacks and an abandoned history book as he beelines for his son.

Or, more accurately, for the economy-sized box of cereal his son's holding _just_ out of his sister's reach.

"A little early for calisthenics, isn't it?" he asks, plucking the box right out of his kid's grip. Both Miles and Amy scowl at him, suddenly united by a common enemy, and he shrugs. "You fight about the cereal, you lose the cereal," he reminds them for about the fifty-seventh time. "There's off-brand breakfast pastries in the cabinet and legally distinct Eggo waffles in the freezer. You know what to do."

Amy crosses her arms. "I wanted cereal," she informs him tersely.

"Yeah, and millennials want a living wage, but we can't—" The second he finally glances at her—like, _truly_ focuses his attention on her—the rest of the sentence sticks in his throat. He swallows. "Amy?"

She frowns. "Yeah?"

"Can you maybe explain today's aesthetic choices to me?"

Displaying a wisdom far beyond his years, Miles plasters a hand over his mouth as sweet, well-meaning Amy grins down at her pink giraffe-print leggings and bright orange dress. "We're supposed to wear our favorite color today," she explains, and suddenly, Tony remembers the newsletter's boldly labeled _SPIRIT WEEK_ section. "I couldn't pick one, so I wore both."

Miles snorts hard enough that he almost doubles over, but he straightens up _and_ clears his throat the second Tony glares at him. "Looks great," he says, his tone balanced somewhere between lightly insincere and thoroughly mocking. "Nobody'll be able to match your, uh, style."

Amy beams and smoothes the ruffles of her dress. "Yeah?" she asks hopefully, and Tony nods like his life depends on it. "Dot's wearing green, because she likes green now."

Miles blinks. "Now?"

"Yeah. Because if she gets a little brother, his room will be green." She pauses, frowning slightly. "If I had a little brother, would you paint a room green for him?"

Tony very nearly chokes on air, but luckily, Teddy picks that exact second to walk into the room—and, better still, to burst out laughing. "The day you land a little _anything_ is the day the multiverse opens up to swallow all of us," he informs her, and she ducks out of the way before he ruffles her hair. He hip-bumps Miles away from the fridge and yanks it open. "But ask Tony a couple more times. I want to see his face turn purple again."

Ever the mature adult completely in control of his household, Tony rolls his eyes as he reaches for a coffee mug. "I didn't turn purple."

"Mauve, maybe?" He shoots the teen a dirty look, and Teddy grins. "I can't believe you're still afraid of babies."

"I'm not _afraid_ of anything. I just prefer children who won't ruin my suits with their milk-scented vomit." He fills the cup nearly to the brim before glancing back at the assembled children. "Besides," he adds, "Bruce and I decided this morning that three kids is about three too many."

"No, Tony, you decided that," Bruce comments as he wanders into the room, his tie hanging over his shoulder and his watch tucked into his front pocket. He smiles wryly when Tony slides him the full mug. "I purposely ignored him."

Tony snorts as he grabs _his_ mug (not to be confused with any other in the kitchen—or, indeed, in the world—out of the dish drainer). "Don't worry," he tells the grinning, conspiratorial pack of minors. "He'll reconsider his position."

"On our marriage, maybe," Bruce replies with a shrug, and their three little hellions snicker in unison. Tony rolls his eyes—part of the usual morning show, along with the mock-bickering and the threatening to return their retired dogs to a life on the racing circuit—but Bruce just smiles. "Fifteen-minute warning," he says, "and no more marshmallows."

Amy jerks her hand away from the counter (and, more pressingly, away from the cereal box). "I didn't eat any marshmallows," she announces.

"Liar," Miles mutters, and tosses her a packet of toaster pastries.

They scatter to the four corners of the kitchen, jamming breakfast in their mouths and cleaning up their separate scholastic disasters. Ever concerned about keeping fit and trim for his better half, Teddy stuffs half a box of granola bars into the front pocket of his backpack while Miles collects the notebook he'd abandoned in a history-hating haze the night before. Amy shoves crinkled worksheets into a folder, her pastry hanging halfway out of her mouth, and Tony sighs.

Not in a bad way, though. No, he sighs almost contentedly, his ass against the countertop and his shoulder just close enough to Bruce's that their arms brush every couple seconds. Despite all the jokes and the grumbling, his life feels mostly complete, like a landscape puzzle waiting for the last couple pieces of sky.

"Great," he mutters. "I've officially put together enough puzzles with my kid that I'm making puzzle metaphors in my damn head."

Bruce cocks an eyebrow at him. "Did you say something?"

"Just thinking aloud," Tony replies, and Bruce holds onto his slightly skeptical expression even as he nods. They stand in the chaos for a few more seconds before Tony remarks, "You know, the whole 'shipping them to three different continents in refrigerator boxes' joke might wear a little thin after we finalize the adoption and permanent guardianship. I might need to work out some new material."

Bruce shrugs. "I'm sure you'll think of something," he replies, and Tony smiles. 

 

==

 

"The evidentiary section I want you to peruse starts on page ten," Tony says, gesturing to the unopened brief, "but if you need a little context—"

"You realize that Phil's the attorney of record on this one, right?" Maria interrupts without touching the file. She peers at him with her judgmental Maria Hill eyes while sipping coffee out of her immaculate Maria Hill coffee mug, the very picture of an attorney who will eviscerate you with a glance and enjoy every second of it. 

Tony crosses his arms. "You're in the record, too," he defends. "I checked."

"I handled the motion in limine and one pretrial conference," she counters. "Hardly counts as—"

"And as the final arbiter of all things appellate, I declare one motion enough involvement to proof my work." Her eyebrows rise far enough that they almost climb into her hairline, which he expertly ignores. "Page ten. See how you feel about my answer to whether we violated the court's evidentiary rulings. Spoiler alert: we didn't, and the defendant's an asshole for arguing otherwise."

She snorts at that, her mouth almost quirking into a smile, but she keeps her suspicious gaze narrowed in on him for an uncomfortably long time. He works to ignore it (and better yet, ignore the itchy feeling that rises up in him thanks to that stare) until she mercifully sighs. "Most defendants are assholes," she agrees as she reaches for the brief.

"Finally, something we actually agree on."

As usual, she rolls her eyes, but she also flips to page ten as instructed. A small victory, and one Tony basks in as he returns to his research for another case. A monster of a case, too, one with novel arguments about the very nature of stop and frisk, and he falls pretty easily into the regular rhythm of typing in search terms and scanning case captions.

Just a typical day at the office. Literally. 

Still, he catches his mind wandering off a couple times, poking into dim corners and throwing up enough debris that he eventually drifts away from his research and starts scrolling through his Outlook calendar. He scans his work assignments first—all of them highlighted in red, all of them on schedule except for the brief that Maria's still poking through—and then pages through everything related to the family: parent-teacher conferences, Girl Scout meetings, visits from the kids' case manager, an upcoming high school dance. A whole color-coded life, stretched out in front of him.

He pages through to the first Wednesday in January. _In re A.J. TPR_ , the first event reads. Tony snorts at Bruce's child welfare shorthand, but something in his chest still clenches. Because on that day, three months from now, Amy's mom faces her parental rights termination trial.

And the curly-haired marshmallow thief who grins at Tony from three different photographs tacked up to the side of his desk, she'll become their kid.

"You give the other side way too much credit," Maria comments, jerking Tony out of his ten seconds of sentiment. "You jump through hoops to find any sense in the argument before ripping it apart. If I were you, I'd rip it apart from the beginning."

She tosses the brief back onto his desk, perfect punctuation to a pretty harsh critique, and he leans back in his seat. "Would you believe me if I said it's better to be safe than sorry?"

"Maybe if you followed it up with, 'And I wanted them to look like morons.'" He snorts, almost smiling, but she just narrows her eyes. "Are you avoiding him?" 

He blinks. "Who?"

"Phil." He rolls his eyes, but Maria's expression barely shifts. "If you two are back to bickering like children—"

"Maria, please. We're talking about Coulson here. The man's not been a kid since he emerged fully boring from his mother's womb." She frowns, her lips pursed in a way that promises a middle age of fine lines and wrinkles, and he waves a hand. "Would you believe he keeps trying to sell me a subscription to _Cat Fancy_? Because—"

"Stark." 

"Yes, future Mrs. Hillwell?" She wrinkles her nose at the hated nickname, but her gaze never wavers. Finally, he sighs. "I cross my heart and hope to die that I am not avoiding Phillip J. Coulson," he fibs. "It's more like— I don't know. Think of it like Ross and Rachel on one of their countless breaks."

For the first time since opening the brief, Maria smiles. Grudgingly and behind her coffee mug, maybe, but Tony appreciates the gesture. "For what it's worth," she says, "Ross and Rachel ended up together."

"Only if you acknowledge the final season of the series. As my collection epic-length Joechel fanfiction demonstrates, I don't." She snorts into her coffee, and he grins. "Now, seriously, about the evidentiary issue—"

"Like I already said, I think you're good," Maria interrupts. "But nice attempt at changing the subject. Very smooth."

He shrugs. "Smooth is actually my middle name," he promises, and reaches for the brief.

She shoots him a sour look—apparently, serious attorneys like Maria Evisceration Hill only allow one limp-wristed dad joke a day—but before she fully sheaths her annoyance, Pepper pops her head into the office. "Line two," she says.

Tony's heart immediately leaps into his throat. In fact, he almost chokes on it. "You sure?" he asks.

She rolls her eyes. "No, Tony, I don't know what a line two call sounds like. I'd better go double-check." He sincerely considers firing her (or at least, threatening to fire her) when she flicks her gaze to Maria. "I don't get paid enough," she remarks.

Maria huffs a laugh. "From your lips to Fury's ears." Still, she sticks around after Pepper walks away. "Line two isn't your code for shooing me out of your office, is it? Because last I checked, you were—"

"Call from the attorney general," Tony lies, but he sounds and feels robotic, like an automaton trained to answer questions on his behalf. "Close the door on your way out, will you?"

Her brow furrows. "Are you—"

"Line two waits for no man, unfortunately," he cuts her off, and she limits her skepticism to a single glance before beating a hasty retreat.

Despite the silence that follows—true silence, comforting silence, the kind's that born exclusively of a closed office door—Tony still loses a couple seconds to drumming his fingertips against his desk. Next to his computer, the hold light on his phone blinks impatiently, the steady heartbeat of his very real dread. Thanks to the whole "humble civil servant" shtick (and the marriage, and the kids), line two calls really only pop up two or three times a year, depending on the nature and extent of any press emergencies. The last time, it'd been because his picture'd popped up in a spread on an Urban Ascent event involving free books for underprivileged children.

How _that_ had earned him a light talking-to— Well. He'd worn a _Cat in the Hat_ outfit borrowed from Steve and been caught kissing Bruce on the cheek. Not that big of a mystery, actually.

He draws in a breath and picks up the phone. "This is Tony," he greets.

"Please hold for Mister Stane," the woman on the other line says crisply.

He bangs his head against the back of his chair in time with NPR-style hold music.

"And finally, he appears!" Obie greets after what feels like a literal lifetime, a not-unwelcome break from the off-brand Vivaldi. He sounds cheerful, almost _happy_ , and Tony relaxes slightly. "You know, for a minute, I worried you'd up and quit. Gone all 'stay at home dad' on me, just for kicks."

"I keep stalling on this week's appeal and that might be my only remaining career opportunity. Think Bruce'll like having a kept man around the house?" Obie chuckles, ignoring the clear sarcasm in the question, and Tony swivels his chair around to the window. Outside, the October sun sticks yellow fingers through the cloud. "You need something?"

Obie snorts down the line. "You mean I can't just call you to check in?" 

"Can? Yes. But if past performance is any indication . . . " He shrugs, aware that it translates only as (potentially bitter) silence. Worse, the silence drags on for way too long, broken only by their occasional breathing. He rubs a hand over his face. "Sorry," he says. "Work's killing me. Not like it used to, back in the day, but I'm staring down the gauntlet of a half-dozen appeals, and—"

"Tony, I'm the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. I'm the last person you need to explain a busy workday to." He rolls his eyes at the ceiling, but Obie soldiers right on. "I wanted to bring you in for a meeting, talk about a few new thoughts I have for the company. I know we don't see a lot of each other outside of board meetings—"

"Part of our brilliant scheme to rehabilitate the clinically depressed pill-popper," Tony reminds him.

"—but I still value your input. And given that we'll need a vote on at least a few initiatives within the next year or two—"

"You want to prime the pump and insure that my fifty-two percent of the shares fall neatly in line." Obie snorts, the sound combative even over the phone, and Tony shakes his head. "I don't mind," he says, surprised by the spark of actual sincerity that runs through him. "Believe it or not, I actually miss the days where you bounced ideas off me. These days, my only engineering breakthroughs involve saving favorite barrettes from the bathroom drain."

"You know, every time you say something like that, I feel like I need to stage an intervention. Save you from yourself—or, at the very least, from a life of barrettes and hairbands."

"Ponytail holders," Tony corrects automatically, and he cringes at Obie's immediate, half-strangled laughter. "Listen," he says, "today and tomorrow are nightmares. Work stuff, kid stuff, lecturing to Bruce's law school class— You name it, it's eating me alive. But if you want me to swing by on Wednesday or Thursday, I can probably make it work."

"That's exactly what I hoped you'd say," Obie replies, and Tony tries hard not to read into the relief in his tone. "I'll have Hope send you a few meeting times, and you can pick whatever works best for you. And I promise, you won't regret stopping by."

Tony huffs. "See, when you put it that way, all I can picture is the snake pit from _Raiders of the Lost Ark_."

Obie chuckles low in his throat. "And like I keep reminding you: we switched to alligators years ago."

They exchange a few meaningless pleasantries before hanging up the phone, and the second the little red light on the receiver finally dies, Tony presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Almost two years later, and Obie still refuses to ask about Bruce or the kids. Especially the kids, kids with pretty much no living relatives and _definitely_ no warm-and-fuzzy grandparent figures looming in the periphery. 

Except when he tries to imagine Obadiah Stane as a cuddly grandfather type, he almost suffocates himself laughing.

He spends a few seconds studying the hazy autumn sun before swiveling back around to his computer. _drinking during work hours is still expressly banned, right?_ he e-mails Bruce.

The reply chimes through almost instantly. _Yes. Why? Turning over a new leaf where you actually worry about things like workplace safety?_

Tony snorts. _nope, just checking_ , he types back, and feels the tension in the pit of his stomach unfurl.

 

==

 

"You really think you had the market cornered on Ward being a sack of crap?" Clint asks around a massive mouthful of breadstick. For a second, Bucky scowls like he plans on throwing the red pepper shaker at Clint's messy blond head, and Clint shrugs. "Because I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but the only person who fell for the whole handsome charmer routine was Phil."

Natasha smirks. "A fact you love, last I checked."

Her buddy grins and steals a crouton off her salad. "'Course I do," he says after he finishes dodging her fork. "How many other times in our relationship has Phil been wrong?"

"We counting his decision to marry you?" Bucky grumbles, and Bruce almost chokes on his iced tea.

"And," Steve adds, helping himself to another slice of pizza, "I thought Grant had potential."

Bucky immediately rolls his eyes. "You called him an empty-headed pretty boy with no nose for the law," he counters.

His husband stops sucking grease off his thumb to shrug. "Yeah, with nowhere to go but up."

The rest of the group laughs at that, and Tony stops poking at a flaccid slice of green pepper to smile halfheartedly. Despite his desperate need to eat lunch literally anywhere beside the office, he still feels a little itchy, like somebody tumble-dried his skin without throwing in one of those fabric softener sheets. Still, he glimpses happy people through the restaurant's dingy front window, and the pizza sauce boasts just a _little_ extra spice. Small favors, really, after that phone call.

He shoves his plate away to steal a black olive off Bruce's pizza. "What's mine is yours," he reminds his better half, and Bruce at least attempts to hide his concern with an eye roll.

"What about you?" Clint asks suddenly, and Tony blinks when he realizes he's now the center of his buddy's rapt attention. "You ever wonder about Ward?"

"Spiritually, sexually, or—" Bucky groans while Steve smirks, a welcome change of pace from the Rogers-Barnes side of the table, and Tony shrugs as he crosses his arms. "Never really worked with the guy, but he seemed lackluster enough. Like a mediocre movie you see because somebody forgot to advance reserve your tickets to _Edge of Tomorrow_."

Bruce sighs. "I'm not apologizing again, Tony."

"And like I said the other day: I'm not looking for an apology as much as a _lot_ of sexual favors spread out over the rest of our lives." Natasha flinches like somebody just force-fed her a whole lemon, rind and all, and Tony grins. "But seriously," he continues, "I never figured Ward for somebody who'd fail the bar. End up suspended or disbarred, sure—"

"See?" Bucky demands, spreading out his hands.

"—but I figured he'd at least pass the test. Keep his _adorable_ boyfriend in cardigans and flannel."

He waggles his eyebrows at Bruce, milking the tangent while also enjoying the way the tips of his husband's ears flare red. He shifts his weight uncomfortably as he reaches for his drink. "I added him to the list after three beers," he mutters. "Anything I say after three beers—"

"Wait, what?" Clint asks, oblivious to the smear of marinara on his cheek. "You switched up guilt-free three and didn't tell us?"

Bucky blinks, his eyes suddenly cartoon-character wide. "Since when do either of _you_ have a guilt-free three?" he demands. "Because when I asked you about it—"

Steve blanches. "You brought it up to _them_?" He sounds a little strangled, like maybe Bucky's revealing a confidence or twelve. Tony works hard not to grin.

"—you acted like I'd just started speaking Russian. Backwards." Bucky crosses his not-insubstantial arms across his chest, still peering meaningfully at Bruce. "I think you need to share."

For a second, Bruce plays up his whole befuddled professor routine—smoothes his tie, toys with his watch band, the whole deal—but Tony knows from the way he holds his shoulders that he's just stalling for time. And probably plotting Tony's untimely demise, actually, but that's nothing a hard kiss and some heavy petting won't solve.

Tony almost whispers that in his husband's ear (more as a way to play up the distraction than to diffuse the situation), when Natasha says, "The head attorney for the Department of Child Services, Clint, and the one juvenile clerk." Immediately, the table falls pin-drop silent, and Natasha glances up from her salad. "Unless you changed the order?"

Lucky for Bruce, Bucky drowns out his tiny noise of abject horror. " _Clint_?" he demands.

Across the table, Clint grins. "I was honored, honestly."

"And I'm never drinking again," Bruce grumbles, but Tony catches the crinkle in his laugh lines.

Just as Tony'd planned, their lunch conversation pretty much devolves into chaos after that, with Clint preening like a pageant winner and Bucky ribbing Steve about his ridiculous crush on Coulson (while conveniently never mentioning the third person on his husband's list). By the time they settle the bill, Tony feels human again—or at least, less like he needs to scratch off his skin.

"As penance for that little game, you're picking up Amy up from Girl Scouts," Bruce informs him as they walk out of the restaurant, his lips dangerously close to Tony's ear.

Tony grins. "Sierra Pulaski-Ramirez is a small price to pay for watching Bucky's brain explode," he replies, and kisses Bruce's temple.

Except he ends up walking next to Clint instead, their shoulders brushing as they navigate the narrow sidewalk. And as much as he tries to focus on Bruce—on the way the wind fluffs up his already messy hair, on the shape of his shoulders in his shirt, on the perfect curve of his ass—Clint's proximity still runs through him like a live wire.

He draws in a studying breath. "Hey, been meaning to ask," he says casually, his heart somewhere in the back of his throat. "How much do you know about that Davis guy from your brother's case?"

Clint frowns. "The guy from the trailer park?"

"Unless there's another Davis involved, then yeah, that's the one."

Clint's brow tightens, his gaze drill-bit sharp and slowly boring a hole in the side of Tony's head, and Tony purposely shoves his hands into his pockets. He counts the cracks in the sidewalk and the shadows from the parking meters just to avoid eye contact. Finally, though, the other guy sighs. "All I know is that he's a tall black guy. Why?"

Nothing about that answer uncoils the three-week knot of worry in the pit of Tony's stomach, but he ignores as he shakes his head. "Remembered the name from an old appeal," he replies. "Thought I might be able to connect some dots for you guys, maybe even help your brother fight the good fight."

Instantly, Clint huffs out a laugh. "You're a horrible fucking liar, you know that?" he asks. "Drunk Phil's less transparent, and he spills his feelings like he's paid for it."

Tony shrugs. "Works like a charm on my second-grader," he counters, and winks when Clint rolls his eyes.

 

==

 

After dinner, dessert, and a truly egregious amount of child-wrangling (although not in that order and thanks primarily to the Girl Scout carpool), Bruce peers over the tops of his glasses and asks, "You want to talk about it?"

Tony snorts as he drops the robber on a ridiculously productive sheep tile. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever's bothering you."

His husband delivers the line with absolutely no inflection, but when Tony glances up from the iPad, Bruce drops his eyes back down to his book. Proof positive that all the worry lives in his expression—not, of course, that he'd ever admit that. No, the illustrious Doctor Banner perfected the art of meaningful silence long before Tony ever crash-landed in his life, and he saves his equally meaningful eye contact for—

"Did you finish the death penalty book?" Tony wonders, frowning.

Bruce cocks an eyebrow without ever glancing up. "You changing the subject?"

"Honest curiosity about your reading material hardly constitutes a bait-and-switch, Banner," he fires back, and Bruce hides his tiny grin by flashing the cover of _Murder on the Orient Express_.

Most of the time, Tony hates and appreciates Bruce's ability to bask in life's little silences in equal measures, but tonight, it spoils in his stomach like out-of-date creamer. Because the longer he sits on the couch, his toes tucked under one of Bruce's thighs, the more he wants to talk about everything that keeps rattling around in his head.

Provided, of course, he finds the right words.

He studies Bruce for a long time, his brain still full of snakes that never really formulate thoughts, when a text message pops up on the iPad screen. _end your turn_ , Bucky demands. His complete lack of respect for the rules of grammar proves his irritation.

_sry_ , Tony replies, and he buys another development card before ending his turn. He waits until Player Four (Steve and Bucky's ridiculously likeable friend Sam) rolls to ask, "Am I allowed to say no?"

"To what?" Bruce asks.

"To talking about it."

Immediately, his husband shrugs. "It's always an option, yes. But considering we share a bed? It might not be a good one."

Tony snorts, throwing in an eye-roll for effect, and at the other end of the couch, Bruce smiles. But more than that, he drops a hand down to rub Tony's ankle in this warm, welcome, _kind_ way that almost fills Tony's heart to bursting.

And according to the scar on his chest, he's kind of an expert on nearly burst hearts. 

They drift into comfortable silence after that, the kind where phone calls from absent mentors and truly noxious dog farts barely even register anymore. Tony falls easily into the normal rhythm of the game—rolling the dice, swearing under his breath at his lackluster settlement placement, ending his turn—and better still, to the even cadence of Bruce's breathing. Outside, the wind rattles mostly naked tree branches, a noisy reminder that yes, winter really is coming; inside, Tony tips his head against the back of the couch and waits for Sam to score his tenth victory point.

At least, until Amy sighs.

Her obvious discontent radiates out across the kitchen and into the living room, loud enough and clear enough to distract Bruce away from his favorite middle-aged Belgian. He flicks his eyes over, but Tony just shrugs. "No idea," he murmurs, too quiet for the breakfast nook homework club to overhear. "Last I checked, she—"

"Want to help with my worksheet?" Amy needles, and Tony immediately buttons his lip. When he peeks over the back of the couch, he catches her kneeling on the bench and peering at Miles's math book. Ever the teenager, he ignores her. "I need to answer questions from the story," she says, inching closer. "Can you help me?"

Miles's jaw twitches. "What'd I say when you wanted me to help with spelling?" he asks.

Amy studies him for a moment, her lips pursed. "That you'd help when you're all done with your math?" she guesses.

"And guess what I'm still stuck on."

"Math?" Bruce snorts a little, and Tony bites down on the edges of his smile. Miles, on the other hand, just waves his sister away. She allows him about three seconds of blissful silence before she tilts her head to study his book. "Did you carry the one?" she asks.

Miles snaps his head up. "What?"

"The one." She points to his notebook. "When you're adding things, you have to remember to carry the one over, or your number won't be right."

From across the room, Tony admires how hard his son works against rolling his eyes. "It's not that kind of math, Amy."

"Oh, so you need to borrow?" Miles huffs, his shoulders clenching, and Tony flicks open the chat window in his game to type _brb kid stuff_. Oblivious, Amy smiles. "Miss Hill says it's like cutting up an apple," she explains as Tony slides the iPad onto the coffee table. "The tens places are big whole apples, and when you borrow, you—"

"Graphing equations isn't subtraction!" Miles times his outburst perfectly with Tony rounding the couch, meaning he witnesses the way his kid spikes his pencil in frustration—and, worse, the way Amy's lower lip quivers. "Why don't you ever listen? I'm trying to finish this, and you won't—"

"How about we _not_ finish that sentence?" Tony suggests as he sweeps up to the table, and Amy spends a hot second blinking at him before throwing herself into his grip. Miles rolls his eyes, the anger rolling off him in waves. Tony loses a second to stroking Amy's hair before saying, "How about you go grab the Bruce-shaped father figure and finish up that worksheet in the office? Bask in the light of an old-timey lamp while Miles and I figure out whether Y _really_ equals MX plus B."

Miles snorts, but he exercises just enough restraint to keep his snide comments on the inside. Amy, meanwhile, sniffles. "The story's about Christopher Columbus," she says as she lifts her head.

"Oh, good. A chance to learn Bruce's _sixteenth-century colonization ruined the Americas and helped create modern racism_ rant by heart." She frowns, her brow crumpling, and he shakes his head. "Worksheet, bath, bed," he prescribes, handing her a pencil. "In that order, since your favorite father banned bath-time napping last month."

"Only for you," Bruce calls from the living room, and Tony can't help his smile.

Once Amy plasters on her very bravest _homework in the face of rude brothers_ face and marches off, Tony retrieves his iPad and flops down on the newly abandoned breakfast bench. Miles, unsurprisingly, rolls his eyes. "I don't need help," he grumbles.

"And I don't need to win against Sam. At least, not this week." Miles scowls, and he shrugs. "If you don't need help with your graphing, I'm cool. I'll sit here, drop the robber on your Uncle Bucky, hopefully ruin Steve's longest road. But if you want another pair of eyes on your coordinates . . . "

He trails off, his attention mostly on the game while still slightly on his son, and he watches as Miles chews on his lower lip. They stew together for a couple seconds, caught in that weird parental purgatory where the kid desperately wants to talk but the parent can't elbow his way into the conversation. Like toddler parallel play, except with a whole lot of awkward glances.

Finally, Miles sighs. "Does it ever suck less?" he asks.

Tony blinks. "Math, or—"

"Everything." He frowns without really thinking about it, and Miles shakes his head. "Never mind. It's stupid. I just—"

"The only thing worse than eighth grade is ninth grade, and the only thing worse than _that_ is the whole rest of high school." Miles's whole face crumples, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disappointment, and Tony reaches over to squeeze his wrist. "You had a tough time last year," he reminds his son, "and as much as I want to tell you that all that was wrong is now right, I lived through middle school. I remember how every crisis just rolled into another one until everything felt ready to explode." Miles snorts and dips his head—but he still checks in to see if Tony's smiling. "And just like we told you over and over again last year: you can talk to me and Dad. Or to Rhodey, Pepper, Cranky Jess—"

Miles almost laughs. "She hates that nickname."

"And yet, she still lives up to it by scowling at me every time we cross paths." He rolls his eyes, and Tony grins. "My point is that there's a legion of people who love you and want to listen. You just need to open your mouth. And maybe, if you're feeling really generous, _not_ snap at your sister every time she tries to help you with math."

"See, I told you." Tony wrinkles his nose as the peanut gallery (more commonly known as Teddy Altman) waltzes into the room, smugness wafting off him like Axe body spray wafts off Ganke Lee. "I said sending her to that summer math camp would make her impossible, and you totally ignored me."

Tony snorts. "Uh, last I checked, you're not the parent. And, more to the point, you're definitely _not_ the boss of me." He crosses his arms (pointedly, not petulantly), and Teddy— Well, to Teddy's credit, he holds a straight face for three full seconds before the snickering wins. "In my defense," Tony says, "that sounded better in my head."

Miles lights up like a whole field of Christmas trees. "Obviously," he replies, and Teddy abandons his quest for a bedtime snack to collect a high-five from his younger almost-brother.

 

==

 

"I can stomach disapproval, even distaste, but— He never even asks, you know?" He shakes his head, his attention still firmly trained on the ceiling. "Disinterest feels worse, somehow. Like in that one poem."

Bruce stops tracing nonsense patterns on his sternum to frown. "What poem?"

"It's about fire and ice. I don't remember the name." Bruce's brow furrows—adorable, sure, but also the cause of _all_ his worry lines, like a facial fertile crescent—and Tony sighs. "'Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire—'"

"'I hold with those who favor fire,'" Bruce finishes, his voice so steady and smooth that Tony's stomach clenches. "Robert Frost. Not your usual taste."

"Remind me to ask you exactly what my tastes in poetry look like, because I definitely need a good laugh." Bruce raises his head just enough to shoot Tony a sour little half-glare, but Tony diffuses his not-quite ire by threading fingers through his hair. "But to wrap it all up with a bow: Obadiah Stane's pathological inability to give even two shits about my family ruined my otherwise uneventful Monday."

Bruce hums a little, his eyes drifting closed, and Tony lets the quiet comfort of his steady breathing wash over him. With the blinds shut and the door closed, their bedroom feels like a sanctuary, a sort of inner sanctum where he can air all his stupid insecurities without judgment. Like the confessional booths in a Catholic church, only with a half-naked husband standing in for the priest.

He strokes his thumb along Bruce's hairline, and Bruce sighs. "At the risk of pointing out the obvious," he says, "you'd tell Steve or Pepper to ignore this sort of thing."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "And not capitalize on your barely concealed love of bad nature poetry?" he asks.

"And not let somebody else's disinterest eat you alive." He snorts and rolls his eyes, but Bruce—his persistent, loving, vulnerability-poking husband—props himself up on an elbow. "I'd accept this sort of approval-craving from the Tony of twenty years ago," he says, his eyes boring into the side of Tony's head like big brown drill bits. "But last I checked, _this_ Tony barely flinches at other people's judgment. Including the kind from actual judges."

Halfway to his _very_ pointed response, Tony blinks. "Did you just interrupt your lecture on my need to be liked with a bad pun?"

Bruce shrugs. "Had to lighten the mood somehow."

His mouth tips into this tiny, beautiful grin, and for a single breathtaking moment, Tony seriously considers flushing all his feelings down the toilet and kissing his husband senseless. Because the hard pebble of dread and disappointment in his belly will disappear soon enough, eroding down to dust thanks to time and the usual workweek distractions.

Bruce, on the other hand, will stick around forever, steady as the tide.

But Bruce keeps staring at him, his gaze unrelenting and a little creepy, and Tony abandons his hopes of a heavy petting session to rub a hand over his face. "I know he thinks I'm cycling through another midlife crisis with this whole disgustingly wholesome suburban lifestyle of ours, but I guess I just . . . " He pauses, his whole train of thought stuttering for a second while Bruce waits. "Your whole extended family took your abominable queerness in stride," he finally says. "Deep down, I hoped Obie might rip that page out of their playbook instead of just ignoring it."

They hover in silence for what feels like a lifetime before Bruce unpurses his lips. "Obie's not your family, Tony."

Tony snorts. "Maybe not," he admits, "but aside from the people in this house and a certain unshakeable paralegal? He's the closest thing to family I've got."

 

==

 

The next morning, Tony stops humming along with Miles's ear-melting travesty of the month (a song that requires him to clap along if he feels like "a room without a roof," whatever that means) to blink at his work e-mail. Not because of the eleven separate notifications from the appellate court's electronic filing system or the couple reminders from Pepper, but because of the e-mail nestled in the middle of all that debris. 

An e-mail from someone named Hansen, M. and bearing the very descriptive subject line _long time no see_. 

"Helpful," he grumbles, and scrolls right past it.

He's about two-thirds of the way through clearing out all the random garbage when the name finally rings a bell, and immediately, his heart lodges in the back of his throat. He swallows around it, ignoring both the scheduling invite from Obie's assistant and his socks to thumb open _long time no see_.

_Hey, Tony_ , the greeting reads, and he tries very hard to imagine the words in a robotic, Siri-style voice. _I know it's been a few years. AIM kept me busy in London. Too busy, according to most of my friends. But back in town for a couple months, and I'd love to see you. Maybe have lunch, since even workaholics need to eat. Let me know, okay?_

She signs it simply—just _Maya_ , no kissy-faces or unnecessary emojis—but something in Tony's chest still clenches like a former crush just passed him a note in front of his entire high school. Meaning that he perches on the edge of his bed like the world's most boring gargoyle and stares at the message for an embarrassingly long time. 

"Uh, you okay?" The question jerks Tony out of his rapt contemplation hard enough that he jumps, and Teddy actually raises both his hands as he steps into the bedroom. "Bruce called your name like a dozen times, but between Miles's music and—"

"According to Google, I am definitely _not_ a room without a roof." While Teddy rolls his eyes, Tony quickly deletes the message and exits out of his e-mail. "I mean, I had my doubts from the start, and hot-air balloons generally don't survive in the vacuum of space, but as soon as I read up on the topic—"

"You know," Teddy interrupts, "you really are the reigning king of dad jokes."

"Just trying to keep up with all the other dads on the block," Tony retorts, and tosses a sock at him for good measure.


	3. Expansions at Home and Abroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony's reminded that there's no such thing as a Stark Industries social call. Fine with him, really, except for the uneasy feeling that follows along after his meeting. Lucky for him, there's also a kid he needs to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for reference, _The Big Short_ started out as a book and later became a movie.
> 
> Also, I know pretty much nothing about business associations and corporate structure. However, I'm screwing around with the few concepts I know for the sake of the narrative. Forgive me.
> 
> And to answer a question that's popped up: Maya Hansen appears in Iron Man 3. She’s a botanist (but also not a botanist) who Tony schmoozes in the first scene and who pops back up before the attack on Tony’s place in Malibu. If you’ve not seen the movie, I won’t share any of her other moments. She’s also in the Iron Man: Extremis comic book arc. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who both used their biology know-how to catch my science reference (and to correct it slightly, because I'm a lawyer, not a scientist).

"He doesn't pay you enough. Granted, I don't know exactly how much you make, but trust me: whatever exorbitant number's on your yearly tax return, it's _still_ not enough."

Hope Van Dyne, professional skeptic and equally professional tall drink of water (because Tony is married and pansexual, not blind), rolls her eyes at her extremely authoritarian clipboard. "I make more than your assistant."

"Given that the county created a whole new tier of trial assistant salary just to keep Pepper in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed, I'm not sure that you do." Her mouth quirks, inching toward a traitorous grin, and Tony nudges their shoulders together. "Your talents are wasted in this futuristic nightmare zone," he encourages, gesturing at the glass walls on either side of the hallway. "Free your big brain from this place. Work for—"

"My grandfather's laboratory?" she asks. "Because last I checked, my boss bought the business out from under him. Or would you rather I go help my parents' struggling law firm?"

The sharp edge to her tone kind of reminds Tony of a brisk winter wind, but he ignores it to shrug. "I'm sure there's some biomedical technology company out there that'd salivate at your CV."

Hope purses her lips, her almost-smile a lot more rueful this time around. "And a mechanical engineering firm that'd do the same for yours," she reminds him, and unlocks Obie's private elevator with her keycard.

Just like in a mediocre movie about human cloning or the inevitability of artificial intelligence, Obie's elevator features a giant glass window that overlooks the building's enormous atrium. Worse, the sparkling chrome detail work around the window reflects Tony's sneer back at him, carnival-mirror style. He rolls his eyes and turns his back to the window on principle. "Last time I visited, Obie sent me up on the regular elevator. Figured I'd been demoted to peon status."

"You were, but there's a gaggle of high school kids visiting the eighth floor. I hate the lines." He snorts, and for the first time all morning, Hope actually smiles. "My parents say hello, by the way."

"They remember me?" Tony asks, blinking.

Hope frowns at him over her shoulder. "You ask that like you haven't spent half your life cultivating the world's least forgettable personality."

"You say it like that, and it almost sounds like a bad thing." She shakes her head as the elevator lurches into motion. For a split second, Tony thinks his stomach's dropped into his shoes. Still, he leans back against the window and crosses his arms. "Two business degrees," he says, "and a— What is it? A doctorate in engineering? I can never remember."

Her shoulders clench under her blazer. "Masters," she corrects. "In biomedical engineering. Which you obviously know, because you mentioned biomedical technology five minutes ago."

"Five minutes ago, I guessed. Besides, my brain's full of soccer schedules and middle school algebra. You're lucky I remember my foster daughter's middle name." Hope releases a breath that sounds almost like laughter, and Tony grins. "It's Abril, in case you wondered."

"I didn't." The elevator glides to a stop, but Hope tosses another glance back over her shoulder. With her hair falling in her face, she reminds Tony of a younger woman—and, more pressingly, of her mother. "Nobody wants a Pym anymore, Tony," she says. "I'm just grateful Mister Stane didn't downsize me with all the other relics from Pym Technologies."

"Obie." She rolls her eyes, finally walking out of the elevator, and Tony raises his hands. "What?" he demands, trotting after her. "The only people who call him Mister Stane are either his administrative assistants or afraid of him."

Hope stops abruptly, and she spins on her heel so quickly, Tony almost collides with her clipboard. "Like it or not, I _am_ an assistant," she hisses, "and your witty banter isn't what will land me a promotion."

He blinks. "I didn't mean—"

"No, you didn't. You never do. But you're also never here." He frowns at the hopelessness in her tone—the resignation, really—but she just sighs. "Your endless supply of genuine compliments won't change anything about this place. At this point, I'm not sure anything can." A thousand different questions pop into Tony's head, each about three degrees more urgent than the last. Problem is that by the time he picks one to ask (namely, a confused and slightly worried _what?_ ), Hope's straightening her blazer. "And now, we're officially late."

The sinking-stomach feeling from the elevator returns with a vengeance. "Okay, you can't just drop a bomb like that and expect me to—"

Hope ignores him to start back down the hall. "Please don't make me drag you by your visitor's badge," she calls over her shoulder, and he stares at her back for a couple seconds before scrambling to keep up.

Despite the ever-expanding collection of frosted glass walls and shiny silver detailing in the rest of the building, Obie's office forever resembles a community theater's reimagining of Hart's office in _9 to 5_. Massive oak bookcases loom like silent guardians on either side of the room, worn leather chairs wait patiently in front of Obie's desk, and the full-on wet bar in the corner offers just about every libation under the sun. Tony swears he actually sinks into the carpet as he walks in, and honestly, he half expects Hope to start batting her eyelashes and chewing on the end of her pen.

Instead, she raises an eyebrow. "If you don't need anything from me, I'll—"

"No," Tony promises. "I'm good."

The doors close heavily behind her, sounding more like the gates of hell than anything else, and Tony drinks in the incredibly welcome silence. When he finally exhales, a little coil of anxiety follows, and his shoulders loosen almost without his permission. He loses a second to studying the office—a place that simultaneously screams _Obadiah Stane_ while echoing _Howard Stark_ —before sliding his phone out of his pocket.

 _10 minutes in, still alive_ , he texts to Bruce. His fingers itch to play with the weird moving sculpture on the corner of Obie's desk.

A minute later, his phone chimes. _Meaning that Hope didn't kill you?_

Tony snorts, almost smiling. _oh ye of little faith._

 _Given that I've met you,_ Bruce fires back, _faith has nothing to do with it._

"And here, I thought you'd forgotten how to smile."

Tony nearly leaps out of his skin at the sound of Obie's voice, and he whirls around just as Obie strips out of his suit coat. They blink at each other for a second, Tony's pulse jackhammering in his temples and Obie's brow crumpling, until the other guy finally shakes his head. "Let me guess: you didn't hear me come in."

"Since my heart's now lodged somewhere in my nasal cavity, obviously not." Obie chuckles and abandons his coat over the arm of the couch. Casual, like they've just jumped back in time two decades and rekindled their half-dead friendship. Tony shakes off his discomfort to nod at the door. "Hey, do me a favor and double Hope's salary or something. I'm pretty sure she's what keeps the trains around here running on time."

Obie snorts as he heads to the bar. "You always liked a personal assistant in a pencil skirt," he comments, and Tony bites down on his full-body cringe. "You thirsty? I'm pretty sure you can't drink on county property."

"Property, yes. Work time, no. And as it turns out, my kid's social worker disapproves if I show up to pick her up after school smelling like whiskey and regret." Shrugging, Obie tugs the top off a crystal decanter. "You want to tell me what this is about? Because appellate briefs don't generally write themselves."

"And you generally aren't this suspicious," Obie returns, this time without the falsified good humor. He sounds almost chiding, like a school teacher at the end of his rope, and Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. "Have a seat, will you? You look like you're waiting for the executioner."

Tony cocks an eyebrow at him. "You mean I'm not?" 

"Jesus, who pissed you off? Trouble in paradise? Kid ruin your favorite suit with a baking soda volcano?" Something deep in his chest burns red-hot, but Obie just waves a hand. "And for whatever it's worth, no, I'm not your executioner. If anything, I'm bringing you good news for once."

He gestures to one of the visitor chairs, and this time, Tony drops into it. Obedient as a puppy waiting for a treat, but he still feels just the wrong side of itchy. Obie clearly senses his discomfort, too, because he drags out the silence, letting it linger as he walks over and perches on the edge of his desk. He studies Tony as he sips his whiskey, and Tony sighs. "What?"

Obie shrugs. "Can't I appreciate how healthy you look? Because compared to a couple years ago—"

"Seven. Eight this spring, not that anyone's counting." He raises his glass, the toast almost mocking, and Tony rolls his eyes. "You know, if you wanted a CEO-shareholder bonding session, you could've just come over to the house. Have beers and burgers out on the deck, maybe play catch with the dogs instead of this smoke and mirrors bullshit—"

"The company's expanding, Tony," Obie interrupts, his tone irritatingly calm. Tony blinks, his mouth hanging open, but Obie keeps his eyes trained on his glass. "Now that the economy's finally picking up, there's a lot more room for investment. Biomedical technology, clean energy, our research and development arm, they're all humming along exactly like we planned a decade ago, but we can still do more. Especially when it comes to helping the community."

He leans on the last couple words, his face expectant, and Tony purses his lips. "You planning on expanding the Foundation?" he asks.

"Right now, no. In a few years—" Tony snorts, his disgust mostly involuntary, and Obie shakes his head. "You know as well as I do that Rome wasn't built in a day. The Maria Stark Foundation's an important project, but it's a money pit. We need to focus on the business before—"

"Dragging out the knitting needles and hot glue gun?" Tony spits, and he ignores Obie's eye roll to jab a finger at him. "The Foundation's not a _project_ , Obie. It's the one part of this company that actually matters. You treat it like a hobby, and—"

"I'll be acting like you?" Obie cuts in, the accusation sharp enough to cut straight into the softest part of Tony's belly. He twists to glare at the stupid moving sculpture, and Obie sighs. "I know you care about the Foundation," he says, "just like I know you care about Urban Ascent. But you're not the same guy as when we started those programs. You're married now. And balancing work with family and your responsibilities here . . . Well, that's a lot for any one man to handle."

He shrugs, the ice in his drink rattling, and Tony squints at him. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

"That you step back from the company for a while." He rolls his eyes, and Obie raises his hands. "I'm not saying it needs to be permanent," he stresses, "and I think you should still be involved with whatever new programs the Urban Ascent board dreams up. But for the actual company? With all the shareholder votes we'll need in the next year?" He toys with his glass. "You don't have time to spend eight hours a month in a room full of business investors. And even if you did, I _know_ you don't have the inclination."

Tony crosses his arms. "I'm not some petulant college kid anymore, Obie."

"No, you're a family man." The soft edge to his tone catches Tony off guard, and he blinks up at Obie just as he smiles. "I don't know Bruce and Miles very well," he admits, "and I know I still need to meet the other two kids. But it's obvious that your priorities have changed, and I don't want shit like real estate acquisitions to distract you away from what's important." He leans forward, his elbows on his thighs. "Take some time to think about my offer, and if you're interested? I'll help you find a proxy."

Tony studies him for a second, trying desperately to find a chink in Obie's unbelievably sincere armor, but the guy just sips his whiskey. Like they're talking about the weather at a ballgame and not Tony's company in an office that reeks of stale Old Spice and despair.

Still, Tony can count on one hand the number of Stark Industries events he's attended in the last year. Worse, he barely glances at his e-mails from the Foundation these days, not because he's disinterested, but because e-mails about standardized testing and middle school spirit week come first.

He scrubs a hand over his face. "You'll send me the prospectus on these new expansions, yeah?" he asks, glancing up at Obie. "Because I'm not handing over my voting rights to some millennial with a degree from Wharton without—"

"Hope'll send you the PDF before the end of the day today. Might even hit your inbox before your kid's soccer game." Tony snorts something that feels like a laugh, but the guy just keeps studying him. "Seriously, Tony. Think about it."

Tony nods. "I will," he promises, and Obie smiles as he finishes his drink.

 

==

 

"As uncomfortable as it feels to actually agree with Obadiah, he might have a point." Pepper punctuates her point with the world's tiniest shrug, and as a consequence, Tony spends such a long time glaring at her that he almost misses their turn. The tires squeal a little as he whips the Audi around the corner, but of course, Pepper just rolls her eyes. "Please don't kill us on the way to Amy's soccer game."

"But killing me by way of your emotional betrayal is fair game?" She shoots him an unimpressed look, and he shakes his head. "Tell me, do you value your job security at all, or is this your way of trying to dip into our state's already over-extended unemployment system? Because if it's the latter—"

"Teddy's right about the dad jokes, you know that?" Tony bites down on the edge of a smirk, and Pepper waits until the GPS directs them into the Suffolk Community Sports Park to nudge his arm. "And before you try to change the subject again—"

He blinks. "Wait, is that what I'm doing?"

"—I want to point out that your life was simpler back when you went to Four Oaks. Nothing to distract you if Obie and the board needed to call you in for a marathon shareholder session. Now, you're—"

"A glorified figurehead, I know," he finishes, waving a hand. "And trust me, nine-tenths of the time, I'm at peace with that. Call it an after-effect of marrying a guy who meditates for fun. And maybe to think up new bedroom positions. Never figured that last one out."

Immediately, Pepper wrinkles her nose. "For the record," she says, "I was going to say that you're a lot healthier with a much fuller life."

Tony shrugs. "You say tomato, I say a brand new plant blossoming from heirloom seeds," he replies, and she snorts at him.

The parking lot outside the soccer field's already teeming with grungy crossovers and sad-looking minivans, and Tony inches down a couple of rows before parking next to an ancient CR-V with a dent over one of the wheel wells. According to the decals on the back window, it belongs to _Hayden and Crosby's Mommy_ , and Tony works hard not to shudder as he drags his folding lawn chair out of the trunk.

"You keep a soccer chair in your trunk and swapped out Bruce's generic license plate for one that says BNRSTRK," Pepper comments, her hip propped against the passenger door. "You're an honor student bumper sticker away from suburban bliss."

"And you are about ten seconds from hitchhiking your way back to your high rise, Miss Potts," he fires right back, and she smirks as she slides on her sunglasses.

Spotting the gaggle of little girls dressed in neon colors—green for the team that practices at the Catholic school, yellow for Amy's team of public school miscreants—takes just about as much effort as finding the sun in a clear afternoon sky, but picking Bruce and the boys out of the clump of dutiful on-lookers requires a little more effort. Lucky for everybody involved, Steve sticks out like a tall, muscular thumb, and Tony actually claps him on the shoulder as he and Pepper join the group. "Put an antenna on your hat, and you'd improve cell phone reception across the county," he greets.

"Nah, we should rent the space," Bucky counters, grinning. "A tiny billboard advertising the business of your choice."

Natasha stops decimating a nectarine to tilt her head up at him. "People'd probably bite. Pay off your mortgage in a year or two."

"Might help me find better friends," Steve grumbles. In a bolt of completely predictable Rogers-Barnes cuteness, Bucky knocks their shoulders together and kisses his husband on the neck.

"It's sweet you think you can do better," Bruce comments from his lawn chair, and the dazzling little grin he flashes up at their whole group nearly steals Tony's breath away. He dumps his stupid chair to stoop down and kiss the top of his head, his whole face nuzzling into that familiar mop of hair. Bruce squeaks, obviously surprised, and reaches back to cup Tony's neck. "You missed an inept practice and an even worse first quarter," he says, his voice just low enough to count as conspiratorial. "Good meeting with Obie?"

"Less Obie, more Banner," Tony replies, and Bruce snorts even as he strokes Tony's skin. 

He basks in everything about his husband—like his warmth, for instance, or his scent, or just his proximity—until Natasha flicks a bit of pulp at him. "You miss your kid's big play again, and I'm not covering for you."

Pepper chokes on her— Well, she _could_ have water in her water bottle, but Tony sincerely doubts it. "Again?" she repeats.

Tony pointedly ignores Bruce's smirk and waves her off. "You don't lose your father of the year trophy for missing one goal."

"You mean her only goal all season?" Steve asks, all raised eyebrows and smug parental superiority.

Bucky lightly nudges his husband. "Don't forget the breakaway," he adds. "Thing of beauty, the way she burst out of the pack and—"

"I hate every single one of you with the passion of at least seventeen suns," Tony interrupts. He levels his best glare at all of his friends, who in turn roll their eyes almost as a single unit. "And for the record, I already bribed the girl child into forgiving me."

Even with his nose buried in _The Scarlet Letter_ , Teddy snorts. "You mean you bribed her twice."

"Only because certain unnamed teenagers ate her first bribe without asking," Tony retorts, and Teddy ducks when he reaches over to muss up the kid's already tousled hair.

As for his other kid, Miles at least waits until Tony finally assembles his chair and steals a (sadly nonalcoholic) juice box from the team cooler to sigh dramatically. Tony cocks his head at Bruce, but predictably, he just shrugs.

Least helpful husband in the history of the world, then.

In his own bolt of overwhelming predictability, Miles sighs a second time. "Why are we even here?" he complains, gesturing to the field of small children. "The game's boring and lasts _forever_." 

He slouches far enough in his chair that he almost liquefies, and Tony raises an eyebrow. "You mean you're confused as to why we're cheering on your sister and mostly cousin in the championship game for under-nine girls' park district soccer?" 

A few lawn chairs away, Steve says, "Quarterfinals."

Tony jerks a thumb in his direction. "What he said." When Miles rolls his eyes, he leans over far enough to nudge his kid's shoulder. "We're doing the family thing and supporting Amy and Dot. Simple as that."

"And the last time they left us home alone during a game, Dummy ate your stash of beef jerky and puked all over the couch." Miles whips around to glare at his foster brother, but Teddy just shrugs and flips a page in his book. "We're serving our time. Bearing our scarlet lawn chairs."

"Yeah, in hell," Miles mutters, and sinks even deeper into his seat.

Tony raises an eyebrow, seriously tempted to correct his kid's language (or, more pressingly, his piss-poor attitude), but Bruce catches his gaze almost right away. "Rough day at school," he explains, almost murmuring. "Pretty sure he needs a good sulk."

Tony studies their son for a moment, cataloguing everything from his aggressive slouch to his full-body scowl, before rolling his lips together. "What kind of rough we talking about?" he asks.

Bruce's brow creases. "There are kinds?"

"When you're his age, absolutely. Jerk classmate, jerk teacher, jerk adolescent brain . . . " He snorts lightly, his confusion fading into a half-hearted smile, and Tony reaches over to twine their fingers together. "You can't know good from bad _or_ ugly unless you type the kind of day he's had. Like Gram staining for teenage attitude problems."

Bruce blinks. "You're a biologist now?"

"No, but I listened to Teddy and his study group for an hour and a half on Sunday. Guaranteed to pass the AP Biology exam." Bruce chuckles, his eye roll almost as fond as his expression, and Tony grins. For the first time all day, the knot in his stomach unwinds, and the sharp sting of his meeting with Obie officially fades to a dull ache. He admires Bruce's laugh lines for a second before asking, "Not to put too fine a point on it, but we need to worry about the kid?"

Bruce tosses a glance over at the still-sulking Miles, something soft and distance sneaking into his eyes. Eventually, though, he shakes his head. "No more than usual." Tony nods and strokes his thumb idly, and he narrows his eyes. "What about you?" he questions.

"Me?" Tony knows the second Bruce cocks his head how absolutely ridiculous his mock-innocence sounds. He sighs. "I'm okay," he admits. 

Bruce frowns. "Just okay?"

He shrugs. "For right this moment, yeah. I'll keep you updated."

And to his eternal credit, his husband smiles a little even while he squeezes Tony's hand.

They tumble into the rhythm of the soccer game after that, just two completely ordinary parents watching their completely extraordinary foster child run up and down the field. In a lot of ways, the under-nine soccer league reminds Tony of sixteen herding dogs all attempting to manage the same wayward sheep, but every single one of those kids plays with the ferocity of Megan Rapinoe in the middle of the World Cup. Over by the snack station, Steve snaps at least three photos a minute, documenting every last-second kick and thoroughly disallowed slide tackle. Bucky, on the other hand, leaps out of his seat at the end of almost every play, cheering on the girls like his life depends on it.

"Ten bucks says he develops an ulcer," Tony mutters after the green team scores a second own-goal.

Natasha snorts. "Only one?"

Bucky glares at both of them.

But as the play winds down during the second half, Tony stops raiding the team's stash of raisins and cocks his head at Pepper. "Hey," he says, nudging her arm slightly, "what do you remember about Maya Hansen?"

Pepper frowns into her almost-empty water bottle. "Who?"

"Maya Hansen. Scientist? Cute? Massive brain?" She screws up her face in thought, her nose wrinkling, and he shrugs. "She moved to London around the time I big-shorted my mental health."

From her spot in the next lawn chair over, Natasha raises both eyebrows. "Did you just compare your brain to the housing market?" she asks.

He jabs a finger in her direction. "I'm not actually talking to you right now, Red, but yes. On a related note, my husband needs to stop lending you his books." She flashes him her usual sharp smile, and he rolls his eyes as he turns back to Pepper. "This ringing any bells, or no?"

Pepper sighs. "Tony, if I'd tracked every woman you flirted with during our Cramer and March days, I wouldn't have had any time to do my actual job." She squeaks when he flicks a raisin at her, but her eyes narrow dangerously. "Why are you asking?"

Tony shrugs. "Call it natural curiosity," he lies, and returns to cheering on his favorite soccer team.

 

==

 

"As hearings go, tomorrow's not really a big deal," Jessica Drew explains, shrugging. "We'll only be there for five or ten minutes, and nothing new's going to happen. Just a formality, really."

"A for-what?" Amy asks, frowning. Already in her adorable plaid pajamas, she perches on the very edge of the coffee table, ice cream sandwich in hand. Between her damp hair, her bare feet, and the little smear of chocolate on her cheek, Tony falls even more in love. 

Her guardian ad litem, on the other hand, blanches like she just smelled her own t-shirt after running a marathon. "A formality," she repeats, and Amy shakes her head. "You know, like— Uh, well—"

She stammers for a second, her expression morphing slowly from _uncertain_ to _lightly panicked_ , and at the other end of the couch, Jessica Jones sighs. "You ever take one of those tests with all the bubbles?" she asks. "You fill them in with a special pencil, and everyone's all nervous because they're a big deal for your school."

Amy rolls her lips together. "You mean the ones with Miss Hill and her test helpers?" she asks. 

Jessica Drew scowls (more to mask her obvious confusion than anything else), but her social-working evil twin grins. "Right, those. And you know how every time you do one of those tests, they make you triple-check your name? Even though you wrote it and filled in all the bubbles, and even though you _know_ you did it right?" Amy nods eagerly, and Jessica flops back against the couch. "That's a formality."

The girl cocks her head to one side, her eyes flicking back between two of her all-time favorite people. "It's a silly thing you have to do no matter what?" she summarizes.

Jessica Drew almost slides off the couch when she cackles. "I always knew you spoke my language," she says, and Amy giggles as she accepts her attorney's high five.

The other Jessica rolls her eyes at them, and no wonder: the to-do list on her legal pad is at least a page long, and according to last week's text messages, her toddler refuses to go to bed without at least a cameo appearance from Mom. Still, she hides her annoyance well, and Tony rests his shoulder on the wall as she steers the conversation back on track. Apparently, preparing kids for a parental rights termination trial closely resembles training for a marathon, just with emotional calisthenics. 

Especially when your child and star witness asks a thousand questions and plans on being present at the final hearing, a fact that still leaves Tony feeling a little off-balance.

"You'll hear a lot of words we've already talked about tomorrow," Jones continues, hands folded around her coffee mug. "Things about your permanency plan, being adopted, that sort of thing. The judge just wants to make sure we're on the right track before trial."

"Like finishing up one chore before starting another," her attorney counterpart suggests. Jones snorts a little at that, inspiring a truly murderous look from Drew. "What? You're not the only one who can translate into kid-speak."

"You really think second graders do their chores in order?" Jones fires back. Drew huffs and crosses her arms, and the social worker shakes her head. "Nothing we talk about should be a surprise. And if it is, we'll answer all your questions after. Okay?"

Amy nods, but even from his place across the room, Tony spots the way her shoulders slump. Like she plans on folding in on herself before sinking into the carpet. Lucky for him and his parental noninterference policy, Drew notices right away. "Okay, what's up?"

The girl snaps up to her full height. "Nothing," she lies, but Drew just tilts her head to the side. Amy's eyes flick between the two women and Tony for a couple seconds before she sighs. "Can the judge still say no?" she asks.

Drew frowns and glances over at Jones, who shrugs. "Say no to what?"

Amy digs her toes into the carpet. "To making my mom not my mom anymore."

The uncertainty in her voice slugs Tony in the gut, a giant bag of cement bricks, and he's still catching his breath when both Jessicas look over in his direction. "Leaving the room," he promises, because he already feels the edges of his noninterference policy fraying. "Need anything while I'm gone? Food, drink, another legal pad full of child-friendly talking points?"

Jessica Jones rolls her eyes. "Of all the foster parents in the universe—"

"You decided to contract with the full-service firm of Banner and Stark. A choice we still thank you for, by the way." He tips an invisible hat, mostly to coax a grin out of the girl-child, and backs slowly out of the room. "You need me, I'll be banging around in the garage and hoping your voices carry through the vents."

Jessica Drew sighs. "After this case, I'm switching to civil litigation."

"You'll miss me," he promises, winking as she waves him off. And true to his word, he actually slinks down the back hallway and out to the garage, completely out of hearing range. The florescent lights over his workbench flicker and hum to life, but instead of digging out a project, he steals a beer out of the refrigerator.

A well-earned beer after a long work day, he decides, and pries the cap off with a screwdriver.

Thanks to Bruce's law school class and Miles's weekly mentorship dates with Rhodey, Tuesday nights always feel a little too quiet and empty, like the rapture rolled around and stole half of the family right out from under Tony's nose. Even sitting in his one private space, surrounded by oil cans, paint samples, and abandoned bits of tile, his skin itches, a prickle that not even the beer shakes away. Worse, his Facebook feed only offers three new posts (two of them ridiculous trivia night selfies from Darcy and the All-New Learned Hand Jobs) and his texts are all at least a day old.

He thumbs open his conversation with Pepper. _It's not a bad business plan, Tony_ , her latest message reads, same as the night before. _You might as well vote by proxy._

And just like last night, he locks his phone and tosses it on the workbench, annoyed. "Because life's not stressful enough," he mutters to himself, and swigs his beer.

He's actually considering calling Pepper—to talk about work, of course, not Obadiah Stane and the future of Stark Industries—when the door into the house swings open. Thanks to the crappy lighting, Teddy looks blonder and paler than usual, and he cringes the second he spots Tony. "Sorry," he says. "I thought you were—"

"Interfering with an important trust-building exercise between an eight-year-old and her social welfare providers? Thanks, but I don't want either Jessica choking me with her thighs tonight." Teddy grins, undoubtedly picturing that very scenario, and Tony swings his stool around. "What about you?" he asks. "You didn't come in and say hi to your two favorite people."

"Oh, Jessica brought Billy and Kate over?" Teddy asks. He ignores Tony's eye-roll to pull the door shut—and, notably, to drag a lawn chair over in front of the workbench. He waits until Tony fetches him a soda out of the fridge to add, "I'm doing homework."

"Either high school's changed a lot since my entirely premature graduation or you're lying," Tony counters, and his oldest almost-kid toasts him with his can. They sit in silence for a moment—well, silence aside from the humming lights and the prickling of carbonation against aluminum. Finally, Tony sets his beer back on the bench. "You okay?"

Teddy shrugs. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You want me to list the possible issues chronologically, or . . . " He snorts, almost smiling, and Tony nudges his ankle with his toe. "Your social worker and guardian ad litem are visiting, and you're holed up in the garage."

"People in glass garages—"

"Were exiled before they stuck their foot in their big mouth," Tony reminds him, and the kid grins. Except his supposed mirth never quite meets his eyes, and his expression turns distant. Tony purses his lips. "If something's wrong—"

Teddy shakes his head. "It's not—" he starts, but his voice falters almost immediately out of the gate. He plays with an earring for a second, his eyes trained on the floor. "I just don't want to be around their conversation."

"Because?" He huffs out a rough breath, and Tony frowns. "Hey, Ted. Kid." When his foster son—his kid, really—refuses to glance up, he scoots close enough to touch his chin. "Teddy," he says quietly, "it's me. No harsh words, no judgment. Just two guys talking in their glass garage."

Miraculously, Teddy _almost_ smiles. "Good name for a band," he jokes, and Tony grins at him. Still, the levity only lasts until Teddy rubs a hand over his forehead. "I guess I'm just . . . I don't even know how to describe it. Weirdly jealous."

"Jealous of what, exactly?" 

"Amy, mostly." Tony blinks, a sort of lizard-brained reaction to Teddy's pretty massive confession, and the kid instantly cringes. "Not because of the trial, if that's what you're thinking," he says, hands raised. "I don't know if I could survive that kind of stress. But when it's all over, she scores this massive fresh start, and I—"

"End up in the exact same place with only slightly different paperwork." Teddy nods, his fingers toying idly with the tab on his soda can, and Tony touches his knee. "We've walked through this a couple dozen times now, Ted. A permanent guardianship's functionally identical to an adoption. You become part of the family, same as Amy, just—"

"Without you being my parents, I know," Teddy recites, voice utterly inflectionless. When Tony raises an eyebrow (at his lack of enthusiasm, not the answer itself), he sighs. "Every time we talk about me being adopted, Jessica tells me the same things. About my dad's death benefits, the scholarships for kids who aren't adopted by eighteen, the transition programs that I'll qualify for. And I totally get why those things matter." He threads his fingers through his messy hair and glances up at Tony. "But I still feel weird."

Tony studies him for a second, trying to peer past the uncertainty—and worse, the hurt—that lurks in those big eyes. Eyes that could someday launch or sink a thousand ships, thanks mostly to those long eyelashes. Eyes like Bruce's, really, and Tony smiles slightly.

But more pressingly, and more importantly, he reaches out and smoothes down Teddy's hair. "If you want to revisit the adoption conversation, we can maybe—"

"I don't really know what I want," Teddy cuts in, and Tony nods through his tiny and definitely forbidden pang of disappointment. At least, until the kid rolls his lips together. "It's okay that I don't know, right? Not a deal breaker?"

"If uncertainty counted as a deal breaker, I would've left Bruce the first time we went to Home Depot." For the first time in the whole conversation, Teddy chuckles, and Tony reaches to pat him on the shoulder. "You know we're here for you," he says seriously. "And no matter what happens, we're still your family. Come hell or high water."

Despite his smile, Teddy still wrinkles his nose. "I'm stuck with you?" 

Tony grins. "You know it, kid," he answers, and ruffles his hair.

 

==

 

Late that night, Tony slips out of bed to creep downstairs.

In a lot of ways, his blames his chronic insomnia on his father, just another genetic fluke passed from father to son. But unlike thick hair and a killer smile, this one haunts him as he sweeps his tablet off the kitchen island and switches on the coffee pot. He feels it hanging over his shoulder as he steals Bruce's mug out of the cabinet, and it looms as he tucks himself into an armchair.

For the first couple moments, he tips his head back against the cushions and studies the ceiling, his mind gloriously blank. Or rather, blank except for obvious sensory details, like how his robe smells like his husband's aftershave and the distant sound of Teddy's _can't sleep in utter silence_ playlist. One of these days, Tony'll teach that kid about sleep timers and blow his mind.

Right now, he sips his coffee and waits for the Stark Industries prospectus to load.

He studies the document for what feels like hours, reviewing every page with the kind of scrutiny he usually saves for appellate briefs. The next eighteen or so months are laid out in excruciating detail, complete with time tables, projected costs, and entirely too many line graphs. Every couple pages, he circles a paragraph or adds an annotation, mostly as a memory tool.

His eyelids only really start to droop when he reaches the chapter on real estate holdings. Yes, that's right, the _chapter_ , because Obadiah Stane and his minions do nothing by halves.

He pinches the bridge of his nose until the tablet screen blurs, and when he finally feels clear-headed enough to continue, he switches out of the document viewer and into his e-mail. For a minute, he thinks of Obie's calculating gaze from the week before, but as usual, his brain betrays him and pulls up other memories: Pepper in his passenger seat, Miles at the soccer game, Teddy in the garage. All the important parts of his life, really, minus the man asleep in their bed upstairs.

He drums his fingers against his empty coffee mug for a full minute before addressing his e-mail to Obie and Hope.

 _let's meet up next week and talk proxies and long-term plans_ , he types. _not because I'm sold on the idea, but just to keep my options open. gotta set my house in order, you know?_

He lets the cursor blink at him until the screen dims before he finally mutters, "Screw it." Hitting the send button feels both like shrugging a weight off his shoulders and throwing himself into the sea.

But when he slinks back into bed, Bruce rolls over and slides an arm around his waist. "Okay?" he asks, his voice sleep-muddled and somehow the most beautiful sound in the world. 

Tony curls close enough to him that they're almost one organism. "I am now," he says, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, everybody: saranoh is coming to town! To celebrate, we'll be doing another video Q&A. Details should be up on my tumblr at some point tomorrow. Be excited!
> 
> Also, this week marks the fourth anniversary of the MPU. I had some feelings about it, which you can read [here](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/146379274362/happy-fourth-birthday-mpu).


	4. What's Past is Prologue (and Then Some)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony crosses the Rubicon. Well, okay, if scheduling a lunch counts as the Rubicon. Either way, he agonizes a little over the decision. And worries about his kid, but that's a different issue altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to tumblr user nykil for suggesting the historical figure for Teddy's paper. I received a lot of wonderful suggestions, but as someone who grew up near Chicago, Addams won my heart.
> 
> And the usual thanks to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who are grammatical cinnamon rolls, too good for this world.

But because nothing in Tony's life ever goes according to his brilliant plans, Maya Hansen e-mails again that Friday.

He's in with Steve when the message pings through, reviewing an incredibly overwrought brief on an appeal from a motion to dismiss. "You're way too shady in about ninety-seven places," Tony says, highlighter dangling from his mouth as Outlook chimes at him. "Any more salt, and I need to prescribe us both a diuretic and call in a nutritionist."

Steve, predictably, scowls at him. "We shouldn't have lost the motion," he defends.

"Totally agree." Tony reclines back in his chair, the brief still spread open in his lap, and promptly waves off Steve's constipated glare. "I'm not saying you're wrong," he stresses. "I'm just saying that you're way too snide about it. Detracts from your message."

Steve rolls his eyes. "And you're all about staying on point," he grumbles.

"You do realize you sound like your kid when she's angling for a second dessert and you counter with a lecture on dental health, right?" Steve huffs and crosses his massive arms, transforming into a great big sulking hunk of man, and Tony almost cackles at his aggressive childishness. "Being fired up is great," he explains. "Makes for a great brief. But remember, I know how these judges work. And knowing them like I do? You need to show a little restraint in your writing."

Steve cocks an eyebrow at him. "Because 'restraint' and 'Tony Stark' are totally synonymous."

"In the appellate realm, absolutely." Steve snorts, his mouth dangerously close to betraying him with a smile, and Tony tosses the draft of the brief across the desk. "Read my line-item vetoes. Tell me what you think."

"Oh good, a return to our mentorship days," Steve replies wryly, and Tony winks at him.

But because Steve's nothing if not a dedicated student of the law (and, more importantly, hell-bent on winning every argument, even the legal ones), he plucks a pen out of his pocket and dives head-first into Tony's edit. Tony considers teasing him about it—the pen, the furrowed brow, the way he bites his lip as he deciphers Tony's handwriting—but another chime from his computer distracts him. He tabs over to Outlook, fully prepared to delete the latest automated waste of cloud space (this one alerting him to open insurance enrollment) when he spots his other unread message.

Namely, the one from Hansen, M. 

His mouth dries out.

In his uncomfortable visitor's chair, Steve mutters, "Next time, we're doing track changes."

"And deprive me the opportunity to mock the sodium content of your legal analysis in real time?" Tony shoots back, and Steve at least snorts as he dives back into his brief.

With his coworker's attention sufficiently diverted, Tony drums his fingers against the edge of his desk and stares at the unread message in his mail folder. Unlike last time, Maya's skipped the subject line. Like when you e-mail a close friend, Tony thinks, or like when he forwards Bruce a stupid meme.

The thought of comparing Maya to Bruce, even for a millisecond, sours Tony's stomach in the worst possible way. He ditches the highlighter to swig the last dregs of his morning coffee and double-clicks the e-mail.

_I probably shouldn't have e-mailed out of the blue like that_ , the message starts, and this time, Tony definitely hears Maya's voice in the back of his head. _You know I've never been good at expressing myself in writing. Well, other than equations. I really would like to see you, though. Exchange stories, especially since you've retired the title of "most sought-after bachelor east of the continental divide."_

He rolls his eyes at the nickname—not his fault that Trish Tilby from _Suffolk County: Unmasked_ once wasted a lot of her precious cable-access airtime on local gossip—but keeps reading.

_If you'd rather not see me, though, I understand. Just let me know, and I promise, I won't e-mail you again. Take care, Tony._

She skips the signature this time, another sign of severely misplaced familiarity, and Tony barely resists his sudden urge to groan.

But what's worse, he rereads the godforsaken e-mail.

In fact, he reads it at least three more times, so wrapped up in those couple stupid lines that he completely misses the moment when Steve starts monologuing about his appellate brief. 

"—right, and I can't stand feeling like I'm wrong," he laments as Tony tunes back in, his face still tipped down toward his extremely rough draft. "Heimdall pulled a fast one and relied on a lot of arcane language. And while maybe his definition technically works, I'm not willing to watch him dismantle our whole statutory scheme. Especially when I—"

"Oh, I get it," Tony cuts in. "Your attitude's less about justice and more about Heimdall bruising your ego." Steve scowls like he's just sucked a lemon. "I mean, I know you're theoretically above things like arrogant chest-thumping, but from where I'm sitting, it sounds a lot like you're just licking your wounds."

"It's not—" Steve defends, but he buttons his lips as soon as Tony raises his eyebrows. They stare at each other for a few very long seconds before Steve finally sighs. "Pot," he mutters.

Tony grins and tips his entirely invisible hat. "Kettle," he replies, and Steve rolls his eyes as he resumes reading. 

Or, rather, as Tony allows him just enough time to flip to a fresh page before blurting, "Lemme pick your brain on something." The other guy frowns, clearly confused by the abrupt change in conversational trajectory, and Tony scratches his fingers through his goatee. "Pretend for a second that an old friend e-mailed you out of the blue and kind of hounded you for a lunch date."

In his usual, painfully astute way, Steve narrows his eyes. "What kind of friend?"

"The usual kind?" Tony attempts, but his buddy just cocks his head to one side. "Fine," he admits, "not a friend. An acquaintance. Specifically, a cute acquaintance I slept with shortly before relinquishing my life of pain pills and casual sex." 

Steve nods, but not in a particularly supportive way. No, either that nod radiates suspicion and judgment, or Tony is seriously projecting all his inner turmoil. After a beat, Steve asks, "And this acquaintance, she wants to have lunch?"

"Yes."

" _Just_ lunch?"

"No, lunch followed by a parking lot quickie in the back of the Prius," Tony shoots back, and Steve purses his lips like a disapproving schoolmarm. Appropriate, given how stupidly defensive Tony sounds. He scrubs a hand over his face. "I liked Maya a lot," he admits, "but I treated her like shit. And not like I treated the other women I dated during that time. I crept out of the hotel room in the middle of the night and never called. Never even—"

He shakes his head, the shame sort of devouring the rest of the sentence. Steve's shoulders soften. "You were a different person back then."

Tony huffs hard enough his chair moves. "Did someone adopt that as my catch phrase and just forget to tell me? Because I'm about to tattoo it across my forehead just to stop you people from saying it." Steve snorts, almost smiling. A return to the status quo, really, even as Tony pushes back his chair and walks over to the window. "I owe a lot of people a lot of apologies," he says. "Maya included. But given that 'lunch with an ex-girlfriend' feels like one of those things you can't really take back . . . "

He shrugs, watching as the trees across the street sway a little in the wind. The room languishes in silence for a couple seconds before Steve says, "I don't have any exes, you know."

"Oh, really?" Tony retorts, glancing back over his shoulder. "I totally missed how you and Barnes fell in love as teenage miscreants."

This time, Steve smirks, every bit the rabble-rouser Bucky always brags about. "I can tell the story again, if you want."

"Not sure the janitorial staff'd appreciate me vomiting in my trash can, but thanks," Tony replies, and Steve shrugs lazily. Like nothing in the world really matters, even though the guy's eyes keep sweeping over Tony's face, waiting for even the tiniest change in his expression. Not for the first time, Tony admires that his nervy little intern grew into such a good attorney. "Since Barnes is literally your one-and-only," he says after a couple seconds, "you obviously can't speak from experience. But given that your moral compass never waivers, I thought you'd have a strong opinion about the right course of action."

"And that I'd talk you down off the ledge?" Steve adds.

Tony shrugs. "Maybe," he admits, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

They fall back into an uneasy silence, the ten feet between them feeling more like a yawning chasm, and Tony tries hard to banish Maya Hansen from his thoughts. But somehow, clearing his head just brings back more memories: the weeks of flirtation, sure, but also the blatant hurt in her eyes when, three days after they'd slept together, he'd pretended not to know her. Called her by the wrong name, an asshole drunk on his own charm. 

The worst kind of human being.

Finally, Steve asks, "Are you happy?"

"What?" Tony responds, whipping around quickly enough that something in his knee pops audibly. "You've met me, right? Seen me with my kids, with Bruce? Because that question's honestly offensive when you—"

"Tony." 

Steve's absolute sincerity is pretty disarming on its own, but when he couples it with a tiny eyebrow quirk, all of Tony's defensiveness just drains away. He sighs, his shoulders finally slumping, and meets Steve's expectant gaze. "Honestly?" he asks.

"That one's up to you."

"See? Unwavering moral compass, and a heart of actual gold." He waits until Steve's self-depreciating little smile fades away to sink back into his desk chair. "Truth is," he says, "I still spend most every day afraid that I'm dreaming. That my brain made up this world where I'm married with a family, and the second I poke the edges too hard, the whole thing'll unravel. And the thought of messing that up somehow . . . " He glances down at his hands. "Guys like me don't get third chances. Mostly because we don't deserve them."

"Because guys like you don't blow their second chance, Tony." He snorts at that, almost rolling his eyes, but the instant he raises his head, Steve pins him with a single look. "I know you hate hearing how much you've changed," he presses, "but until a couple years ago, I don't think I'd ever seen you genuinely happy. And the fact that you're afraid of ruining that says a lot more than my supposed moral compass ever could."

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, Tony smirks. "Supposed?" 

"Like you said, I'm a recovering teenage miscreant with a sarcastic appellate brief," he says, and he saves his shitty little smile for when Tony huffs at him. "Talk to Bruce. Tell him what lunch with Maya means to you and go from there."

Tony raises his eyebrows. "And if he transforms into a green-eyed jealousy monster?" 

Steve shrugs. "Unlikely as that sounds, it's one kind of answer," he replies, and finally returns to his brief.

 

== 

 

"You know this resembles an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, right?" Tony asks as he reaches for the cream. Or rather, as he reaches for the canister that is either nondairy powdered creamer or Comet, because middle schools rarely spring for the good stuff. 

Next to him, Bruce snorts to hide his smile. "You're an expert on substance abuse meetings, now?" he questions.

"Expert, no. But between reading that Marian Keyes novel about the cocaine-addled Irish chick and watching reruns of _The West Wing_ . . . " He trails off, relying mostly on a sly smile and a twirl of his stir stick to finish the thought, and Bruce shakes his head. "Come on. Dry cookies, weak coffee, and a figurative sea of folding chairs? Next thing you know, Miles's team leader will expect us all to stand up and say our names."

"That's a given, and you know it," Bruce fires back, leaving Tony to shrug and chomp down on a crumbling hunk of oatmeal-raisin despair. For a moment, they stare at each other, the very portrait of marital deadlock. Finally, though, Bruce sighs. "Next time, I'm dropping you off in the cafeteria with all the students," he decides.

Tony grins. "Can I get that in writing?" he asks, and Bruce knocks their shoulders together as he heads for the circle of chairs.

Somewhere in the universe, a thousand or more miles away from this room and its possibly caustic creamer, there exists a human being who actually enjoys middle school parent's nights. That person (who probably runs the PTA and a Boy Scout troop, just for kicks) picks up all the handouts, listens eagerly to all the presentations, and skips merrily from classroom to classroom, the model of a modern major mom-or-dad. Every teacher is greeted with a smile, and every last school-related detail is recorded, reviewed, and memorized.

Tony knows he'll never meet this entirely hypothetical parent, but he hates him-or-her just on principle.

Lucky for him, Bruce feels roughly the same way about this dog-and-pony show, because he leans in close to Tony's ear the second he drops into his seat. "Find an error in any of these posters, and you win a prize," he murmurs, and the _promise_ in his tone sends a shiver shooting up Tony's spine.

"I already know what I'm requesting," Tony warns, and Bruce hums his assent while sipping his coffee.

This year, Miles's team leader doubles as his science teacher, and Tony literally pays just enough attention to introduce himself at the right moment before devoting himself to studying the brightly colored posters that dot the classroom walls. Most of them exist just to remind the kids about laboratory safety—wear your googles, don't drink the acid, that sort of thing—but a couple highlight the basic principles of eighth-grade chemistry. And from the way Bruce keeps smirking in his direction, eyebrow slightly raised, Tony suspects he's already spotted at least three potential problems.

At one point, he mutters, "Reminder that you married a lapsed engineer, not a chemist."

Bruce shrugs. "Physicist," he murmurs, and Tony seriously considers kissing him in front of thirty-some other parents.

By the time the teacher finally breaks up their little meeting (mercifully without any rousing speeches about how much she loves their children), Tony's head hurts from squinting at the periodic table. "If you played me, you owe me _two_ prizes," he informs his husband.

Bruce shrugs as he finishes his coffee. "Check the instructions on the chemical shower," he instructs, and Tony actually swears aloud when he realizes that the word _emergency_ is spelled wrong. 

Chuckling and obviously pretty proud of himself, Bruce heads back to the snack table for a refill, which leaves Tony alone to glare at the offending poster. Or rather, alone and totally open to attack, because Miles's teacher picks that exact moment to sidle up to him. "Last time I let a student type up the instructions for me," she shakes, shaking her head. "I can't tell you how many people've pointed out the error."

Tony snorts. "I'm just annoyed I missed it," he admits. She frowns slightly, and he waves her off. "Long story, mostly my husband's fault. And since he's the resident expert on talking to teachers without causing some sort of international incident, maybe we should—"

"I think Dr. Banner's a little tied up right now, actually." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder, almost smiling, and Tony nearly chokes on air when he realizes that Ganke and Judge's mothers both picked that exact moment to gang up on Bruce about god alone knows what. Better him than Tony, of course, but Tony's heart still sinks as he glances back at the teacher. "Unless you want to wait," she continues, "but since the talk about how we track kids for high school starts in about ten minutes—"

"Better for me to be on my very best behavior?" Tony guesses. She shrugs, her expression suddenly very noncommittal, and he rolls his lips together. "Look, I know Miles's reputation kind of precedes him, given everything that happened last year," he says, "but we're working on it. And according to his most recent progress report, we're not totally failing."

"No, you're not," the teacher acknowledges, her tone just kind enough that the knot of worry in his gut starts to loosen. "His grades have improved a lot between last year and this year, and his attitude— Well, he's an adolescent boy, so his attitude's right on track." Tony grins at that, a totally involuntary response, and she smiles. "But I was wondering if he's ever, well, withdrawn at home."

"Withdrawn?" Tony repeats, frowning. "Like, locking himself in his bedroom and listening to death metal? Wearing a suspicious amount of black even before Labor Day?" Her good humor drains away almost immediately, and Tony curses his big mouth even as he raises his hands. "I am not good at worrying about my kids and show it in the worst way. And I definitely don't know what you mean by withdrawn."

"Distracted," she answers, her gaze never wavering even as Tony lowers his hands. "Quiet. Not wanting to be part of your normal family activities."

"Well, he hates his sister's soccer games, but to be fair, they're about eighty years long and full of offsides violations." The teacher tilts her head a little at that, and Tony sighs. "Like you said, he's a teenage boy with all the usual teenage drama. No red flags from our end. At least, not that I've noticed."

"That's good," she responds, her smile a little more forced than just a few minutes earlier. "His teachers all noticed that his mind wanders sometimes, and we just wanted to make sure that it wasn't unusual."

"No more unusual than anything else that comes with puberty," Tony replies, and Miles's teacher pats him on the arm before wandering off.

The conversation looms over him like a tiny gray rain cloud for the rest of the night, though, just distracting enough that he forgets to mock the entire concept of "tracking" during the session on transitioning to high school. Bruce shoots him a couple sidelong glances, his lips pursed and his face just the wrong side of worried, but every time, Tony waves him off. They're still novices in the care and feeding of teenage boys, after all, and Miles, like Bruce, tends to fall more on the "reflective introvert" end of the personality spectrum.

Right?

Tony snorts and shakes his head. Of course he's right, he tells himself. For the first time in documented history, they're scoring straight tens on the parenting scale, concerned science teacher or no.

Bruce jumps a little when Tony loops an arm around his waist after the high school tracking session, but the confusion fades into fondness in pretty much record time. "Since I know the only thing keeping you awake during these sessions is a whole lot of watered-down coffee," he says, "how about we swing by the cafeteria, nab our kid, and head out for ice cream?"

Bruce quirks an eyebrow. "And miss learning about the changes to their lunch menu?"

"Given that you pack their lunches every morning like a 1950s housewife . . . " Tony intones, and Bruce rolls his eyes even as he smiles. A real smile, one that bunches his laugh lines and reminds Tony why he's so desperately in love with this man. He tips in close enough to press his nose into Bruce's hair. "You're always saying we need to spend more one-on-one time with each of the kids," he needles. "Might as well start with the one who's writing love letters to his flavor of the week."

Bruce's brow creases. "Did he and Briana break up again?" he asks.

Tony shrugs. "Guess you'll have to ask him over ice cream to find out," he replies, and kisses Bruce's temple.

 

==

 

"What about red? I mean, you like red, right? Color of vengeance?"

Amy wrinkles her nose, a prelude to her whole face contorting, and rests her chin on Tony's shoulder. For a second, nobody breathes, not even the cat. Like waiting for the apocalypse, Tony thinks, and he feels no guilt about the comparison.

Finally, though, Amy sighs. "I don't know," she admits. "The red one looks like a party dress."

Tony raises his eyebrows. "And Brandie's birthday party isn't worthy of a party dress?" 

"Not a _red_ party dress." 

She delivers the line emphatically, her whole body slumping against Tony's back, and Tony rubs a palm over his face. In front of him, the carpet's layered with at least a dozen child-sized dresses, all of them contenders for Brandie's birthday party Saturday afternoon. Well, except for the red dress, apparently.

But when he leans forward to toss the offending dress into the pile of rejected outfits, Amy cries, "Wait!" He freezes, his knees aching, and waits for her to shake her head. "I'm not sure. Do you think it's prettier than the green one?"

"I think my opinion's irrelevant and that you'll change three times tomorrow," he answers automatically. She huffs, but when he tosses a grin over his shoulder, he discovers that she's about a half-second away from a quivering lower lip. Suddenly, he wishes he'd married Pepper instead of Bruce. "I think Brandie's birthday tea party will be fun," he amends, softening his smile, "and that you and Dot will be the prettiest girls there. And the smartest. And the most athletic. And— I don't know, what other things does Bruce claim you are?"

Amy's momentary sulk explodes into a toothy grin. "Kind and special."

He narrows his eyes. "You sure it's not _kind of_ special? Because according to the internet, second graders are half-price this weekend, and if I apply some of my reward points—"

She scoffs a little at that, flopping against him hard enough that they both almost lose their balance, and Tony allows her one minute of pint-sized superiority before tugging her down onto the pile of dresses. She squeals when he tickles her sides, her whole body flailing in a halfhearted attempt to push him away, and he buries her in rejected skirts and shirts until she's sputtering as much as laughing. By the time she unearths herself, she's pink-cheeked and panting, but her smile glows.

Tony grins and brushes hair out of her face. "You know Bruce is gonna be on us about cleaning this up, right?" he asks.

Still splayed out across the floor in front of him, she shrugs. "You started it," she replies, and he drops the offending red dress on her face.

They pick up three top contenders (all of them green, all of them destined for last-minute rejection) before leaving the mess to wander downstairs, Amy babbling about cucumber sandwiches and how Brandie's mom owns a store "that's like Starbucks, but just for tea." He flicks her ponytail as they wander into the living room and plays innocent when she scowls at him.

"If she bites your hand off, I'm not responsible," Teddy says from the couch. Piles of notecards surround him like tiny white battlements, but Amy ignores the mess to climb up next to him and steal a handful of his popcorn. He wrinkles his nose. "You here for fashion help or to ruin my research paper?"

"Can I do both?" she asks with a grin, and he retaliates by poking her nose. She smacks him with a notecard before squinting at it. "Are you still writing about the lady with the house?"

"Jane Addams," Teddy corrects, "and yes, I am."

"While watching HGTV, apparently," Tony replies, leaning on the back of the couch. Or at least, he leans in until the commercial ends, at which time he recoils in actual horror. " _Property Brothers_?" he demands. Teddy snickers into the laptop. "Theodore Altman, we both know that I raised you better than this."

"Except for the part where you didn't raise me, sure," Teddy replies as he slides his soda out of Amy's thirsty grip. "But it's good white noise, and they're easy on the eyes."

"Easy on the—" Teddy raises his head expectantly, and Tony shudders. "Remind me, can we still return you to sender? Because next thing I know, you'll be addicted to that show about the tiny houses—"

"Oh, they're so cute!" Amy chimes in around another mouthful of popcorn. 

"—and I'll need to rewrite my estate plan to protect against involuntary miniature relocation." Teddy hides his grin by turning back to his paper, and Tony seizes the opportunity to nudge the back of his head. "You already send the rest of this family to live in a shoebox on wheels, or is there still time?"

Like clockwork, Teddy rolls his eyes. "They're out cleaning up some of the flowerbeds, I think," he answers, his attention still mostly on his assignment. "Bruce said something about ordering pizza for dinner, but Jonathan had a sledgehammer, so . . . "

He shrugs, trailing off, and Tony snorts. "I'm texting Billy a transcript of this conversation, you know," he warns, but Teddy just waves him off. He pats the kid on the shoulder—a reminder that, stupid banter (and terrible taste in men) aside, Teddy's a valued part of the family—before asking, "You mind hanging out with your sister for a while?"

Even with her hand buried in the bowl of popcorn, Amy huffs. "I don't need a babysitter. I'm eight."

He cocks his head to the side. "Must've been a different kid who microwaved an unauthorized Hot Pocket until it caught fire, then," he replies, and the smug expression drops right off her adorable face.

Leaving Teddy to his paper (and more pressingly, to his truly atrocious choice of background noise), Tony walks out onto the deck, where the October chill greets him like an old, familiar friend. In a lot of ways, fall's his very favorite season, when everything changes colors in preparation for a quiet couple months and, maybe more importantly, a fresh start. He'd actually explained that to Yinsen, once, his bare toes curling in the grass of Four Oaks's unnecessarily huge courtyard. He'd rambled for a full half-hour before his counselor'd finally cracked a smile. "I think that's the most meaningful thing you've ever told me," he'd said. "A sign you're making progress."

Tony'd rolled his eyes. "Or a sign I really like fall," he'd retorted, but for some reason, his heart'd felt a lot lighter for saying it.

Of course, his heart's now a pretty buoyant part of him, bobbing along as he teases his foster kids or, right now, watches his husband and son out in their yard. They both kneel in the dirt, their heads bent together, and Tony watches in awe as Bruce explains— Well, _something_. Could be the root structure of whatever weed he's just dug up or some fun fact about earthworms, but either way, Miles nods in time with the lesson, his whole body tilted toward his dad.

Sometimes, Tony worries he'll overpower Bruce with his brash, jokey parenting style.

But then, he walks in on his husband with any one of their kids, and he remembers that no matter how hard he tries, he's still just playing for second.

He tries to stay inconspicuous—not hard, since his favorite father-son tag team's pretty engrossed in their work—but the second the dogs spot him, all bets are well and truly off. They abandon their spots in the shade to careen in his direction, twin silver-gray streaks that barely touch the ground. Butterfingers wins by a hair, tripping on the last step and bodily colliding with a deck chair before he joins his brother in their excited dog dance.

Over in the flowerbed, Bruce and Miles both shake their heads. 

"My favorite boys!" Tony cheers, but he drops to his knees to pet the dogs before either of his _actual_ favorite boys roll their eyes. Of course, they eat it up, with Dummy flopping over for a belly rub and Butterfingers snuffling the side of Tony's neck. He indulges them for a few seconds before asking, "Listen, either of you guys seen my husband or my kid? Because if you lost track of them again, we might need to—"

"You're really not funny!" Miles calls from across the yard, but Tony hears the laughter in his voice. Better still, Bruce nudges him in the ribs, the international sign for _stop picking on your handsome, loving father_. 

At least, Tony assumes.

The dogs canter around him as he heads out into the yard, the greyhound equivalent of those rotating green shells in MarioKart until he flings a rope toy into the bushes and leaves them to chase after it. "For the record," he says, his hands raised, "I'm not here to interrupt your adorable bonding time. I just wanted to inquire about dinner while vaguely warning you about the state of Amy's bedroom."

Bruce's brow creases. "Vaguely?" he asks.

"And aren't we getting pizza?" Miles chimes in.

"If that's the general consensus, sure. But the last time I ordered pizza without prior spousal approval . . . " Tony cringes like his life depends on it, and Bruce rolls his eyes while their kid snickers. But not even mild disapproval dims how fantastic the man looks, his hair messy and his sleeves rolled up. Tony drags over one of the fire pit chairs and plops down. "And as for Amy, she's having a crisis of tea party confidence. Like Miles at last year's school dance, but with more outfits."

Miles stops digging to shoot him a thoroughly indignant glare. "I wasn't _that_ bad."

Bruce rolls his lips together to hide his little grin. "You demanded we go to JC Penny," he points out. "Twice, actually."

"Only because I needed new pants!" Miles defends, and viciously jabs a half-dead weed with his trowel.

Tony blinks at his flash of fairly typical teenage frustration, but Bruce—a black belt at silent spousal communication—just shakes his head. _Friends_ , he mouths, his head tipping slightly in their son's direction. _Still working out details_. 

Despite directing all his scowling fury at the ground, Miles still snorts. "I know when you're silent-talking about me, you know."

Tony shrugs. "I wasn't trying to hide it," he admits. When his kid rolls his eyes, he glances at Bruce. "Were you trying to hide it?"

This time, Bruce actually smiles. "Lip-reading's a marketable skill. Might as well add it to your college applications, right?"

Miles screws up his face, his expression hovering somewhere between _incredibly frustrated_ and _lightly amused_ until his dad touches his knee. Because that single nudge somehow smooths away enough of his rough edges that he stops mutilating the flowerbed. Better still, he glances up at them. "Want me to go ask Teddy and Amy what they want on their pizza?" 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Are you asking because you're hungry, or because you need a break from adults right now?"

To his credit, their kid actually rubs the back of his neck for second before he shrugs. "Both? I mean, no offense, I just—"

He gestures at the two of them, and Tony tries hard to bite back his grin. "Not in the mood for two against one?" he guesses.

"Pretty much, yeah," Miles admits. He ducks Tony's attempt to run a palm over his short-cropped hair before turning to Bruce. "I'll come back out later if you need me, but—"

"Just don't track mud through the whole house," Bruce instructs, and the teen actually grins a little as he springs up out of the flowerbed. Bruce waits until he's climbing the deck stairs to explain, "He's upset about some friend from a couple years ago. He won't tell me the whole story, but I'm working on it."

"Meaning that he swore you to secrecy and you're not ready to spill?" He rolls his lips together, the picture of a guilty husband, and Tony flaps a hand at him. "Better he trusts you with half the story than refuses to tell us anything. As long as you're not, I don't know, planning to steal the Declaration of Independence without my loving support." Bruce snorts, his nose wrinkling, and Tony leans in far enough to card fingers through his hair. "We're doing a good job, right? With the tag-teaming and the soul-bearing and everything?"

Bruce shrugs. "Better than either of our fathers, I think," he replies. Tony huffs out a hard breath, but his husband tips his head up just far enough to catch his eyes. "What about you?"

Tony blinks. "Me?"

"The story you're not telling me?" He stares at Bruce, his face as vacant as a seedy roadside motel, and Bruce flashes him a wry smile. "When I asked you about Steve's brief, you tossed out one-word answers with no follow up. I've been bracing myself for the impact." Tony purses his lips, his brain still scrabbling for the right response, and Bruce frowns. "It's not still about the company, is it? Because if Obie's giving you the runaround—"

"Not Obie," Tony promises with a quick shake of his head. "Still waiting for an e-mail back, but it's definitely not that." His husband nods a little, but he keeps his full attention on Tony. Waiting, Tony thinks, and he sighs. "You know I used to be pretty bad news, right? Not the paragon of virtue you now see before you?"

Bruce cranes his neck to glance over Tony's shoulder. "Steve's here?" he teases.

Tony snorts and musses up his hair, just on principle, but he knows from the way Bruce's face softens that his half-second amusement never reaches his eyes. He rests his elbows on his thighs. "I treated a lot of people like shit, back when I worked for Cramer and March," he admits. "Like, ground them into the dirt with my heel and never looked back. Especially if they were smart, capable women who somehow mistook me for a halfway decent guy."

For the first time in their whole conversation, Bruce actually ditches his work gloves. He grabs Tony's hand, his fingers blunt but still comforting, enough to inspire Tony into a weak smile. "You were dealing with a lot," he says.

"No, I was a pill-popping asshole," Tony corrects, and he ignores the way his husband frowns. "I'm not looking for sympathy, Bruce. I know how I treated people. And one of the last people I hurt was a scientist named Maya Hansen."

"From Advanced Idea Mechanics?" He blinks, almost jerking backward at the nonchalant question, but Bruce just shrugs. "I'm not the one who uses our subscription to _Scientific American_ as an expensive coaster."

"Which I only do because Teddy's still upset about that Ryan Gosling issue of _Entertainment Weekly_ ," Tony fires right back, and immediately, Bruce's expression lightens. Almost like that one joke's lifted away some of his worry, and Tony seriously considers a smile before the weight of the conversation crash-lands in the pit of his stomach. "Part of my therapy—or maybe my rehabilitation, I don't know, the line between the two's pretty foggy—was about apologizing to all the people I hurt, and I checked off all the major players. Pepper, Obie, Rhodey, Steve. But no matter how hard I worked at it, I never really figured out how to apologize to Maya."

"And?" Bruce asks, his tone simultaneously expectant and resigned.

"And she's back in town," Tony admits, suddenly unable to meet his husband's eyes. "She looked me up and invited me to lunch, but I don't necessarily know how you feel about that."

"Ah." The word sounds more like a breath than anything else, a little puff of air that floats up onto the autumn breeze, and Tony digs his toes into the grass. For a couple seconds, they just sit there, Bruce holding onto him while he slowly forgets how to exhale. After what feels like a lifetime, though, Bruce asks, "You think I'll worry about you spending time with an ex-girlfriend?"

"Not _worry_ , just—" Bruce cocks his head to one side as Tony lifts his eyes, a silent challenge, and he huffs out a hard breath. "Okay, maybe a little. But given that I'd develop a pretty significant ulcer if we reversed the roles here, I thought—"

Bruce chuckles and shakes his head, his expression just warm enough to fill Tony's whole body with warmth, and when he leans in close, he brushes his lips across Tony's knuckles. Pins him there using nothing but the sheer force of love and slightly chapped lips, and Tony swears he feels his heart melt. 

Especially when Bruce asks, "Flattery's the wrong emotion to feel about this, right?"

"Last time I checked, emotion's not really my area of expertise."

His husband immediately rolls his eyes. "I'll believe that when I see it," he retorts, and this time, Tony definitely smiles. "And even if I wasn't flattered, I still wouldn't be worried. I mean, you staged a surprise wedding. Not exactly the gesture of a man who plans on running off with a brilliant scientist."

Despite all the better angels of his nature, Tony still leers. "Who said I wouldn't just bring her home?" he teases, and Bruce snorts to hide his obvious urge to laugh. He tries to release Tony's hand (probably as punishment), but Tony tangles their fingers together. Traps him, he thinks, and smiles. "I know I'm not always good at this," he admits after a beat, "but I love the hell out of you."

Just like clockwork, Bruce smiles. "You do okay," he promises, and squeezes Tony's hand.

 

==

 

Later that night, after Amy models another seven outfits and Teddy nearly throws his computer out the window while cursing about syntax, Tony plants a kiss on Bruce's shoulder blade. "I lucked out, finding you," he murmurs, and Bruce shivers as he tangles their legs together. "I tell you that a lot, right? That I won the lottery just by being sucked into your orbit?"

Bruce shrugs. "Problematic astronomy aside, I don't mind hearing it," he replies, and he laughs when Tony pinches his hip. Better still, he rolls over onto his back to tangle a hand in Tony's hair, and Tony swallows down on a not insignificant moan. "I think the boys are still playing _Call of Duty_ ," he warns, his voice full of promise.

Even as he shrugs, Tony's whole body pulses with want. "More power to them," he says casually, and Bruce actually laughs as he drags him down for a kiss.

Of course, one kiss stretches out into seven, into a dozen, into the kind of greed and need that defies any accepted number system. Tony tries hard not to beg for more, to plead with Bruce as fingers stroke along his spine and cup his ass, but the more he fights against that impulse, the more helpless he becomes. He whines when Bruce breaks away to nip his neck, which is nothing compared to the sound that bubbles out of him as Bruce reaches for the bedside table.

Bruce blinks at him. "I thought—"

"Too much effort," Tony cuts in, his whole body shuddering a little as he shakes his head. "I just need you."

Someday, he'll figure out how to describe the knee-weakening sweetness of Bruce's smiles. "No complaints here," he replies, and snakes a hand between them.

Tony cries out, his voice almost cracking, and he abandons all sense of time and place to rut against his husband's palm. He's vaguely aware of Bruce panting against his neck, little huffs of praise that reduce Tony to putty, but nothing compares to the feel of skin against skin. Of love, really, the kind that bubbles over until Tony's not aware of anything but his need to chase that Bruce-shaped high.

When he finally falls apart and comes crashing down to earth like Icarus, Bruce catches him.

And the next morning, he e-mails Maya Hansen: _how's tuesday at noon?_


	5. The Empty Spaces in our Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony eats lunch. More importantly, though, he hopes to overcome the strange distance that hovers between him and Maya—a distance that, like most things, is a lot more than meets the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any weird inconsistencies in dates and calendar math are due to my own stupidity. Please blame no one else but me. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my magnificent beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who shouldered the end of this chapter like the bosses they so clearly are.

"Look at you," Tony says, flopping back in his chair with his hands raised. "Eight years later, and I'm pretty sure you haven't aged a single day. What's your secret? Pilates? Botox? Please don't tell me it's good clean living."

Across the table, Maya Hansen shrugs. "Haven't touched caffeine since the day you snuck out of my hotel room," she confesses, and Tony literally chokes on air. Sputters on it, actually, until she flashes him a wicked little smile. "Don't worry, I'm kidding. I don't even get in the shower before I finish my first cup of coffee."

Tony jabs a finger at her. "See, I knew there was a reason I liked you," he replies, and she shakes her head as she cracks open her menu.

The restaurant—or, more particularly, the _gastropub_ —Sitwell recommended thrums with the usual energy of a downtown lunch hour rush, but for some reason he can't really explain, Tony keeps forgetting they're out in public at all. Sharing a table with Maya feels a little like sharing a table with the human embodiment of the past, and despite the din of dishes and conversations around them, the whole thing reminds Tony of a Dickens novel. Only instead of a rotten wedding cake or a weird ghost in a white dress, Tony's looming past wears slacks and a patterned blouse, her long hair cascading around her shoulders in waves.

Just like eight years ago, he thinks, and watches Maya sip her water. 

All morning long, he'd obsessed over a dozen different reconciliatory speeches, writing and rewriting them in his head like an Aaron Sorkin character. Worse, he'd actually muttered a few possible apologies aloud in his office while his drumming fingertips played the part of the world's least reliable metronome. He'd pictured Maya throwing water in his face or glomming onto his arm, pictured _himself_ fumbling for the right words (or worse, running out of them entirely), but he'd never quite imagined this:

Maya drinking her water while browsing her menu, totally unfazed.

For the first time in what feels like literal weeks, Tony exhales.

Too loudly, apparently, because Maya lifts her head, her eyebrows raised. "Did you just sigh like we're in a telenovela?" she asks.

"Depends on whether my evil twin Maximiliano shows up to murder me," he fires right back, and she grins behind her water glass. He waits for her to finish drinking before asking, "So, you really stuck it out with Advanced Idea Mechanics? Like, long-term? Because last I checked, your research belonged in a university and possibly a museum, not—" 

"Sold to the highest, soulless bidder, yes. I remember." He raises his hands, mostly to defend himself against the sharp edge to her voice, and she spends a couple seconds playing with her glass. "I'm proud of the work I've done over the last eight years. A.I.M. is just a means to an end. Keeps the lights on, helps fund my projects." The corner of her mouth twitches into a wry almost-smile. "After all, not all of us started our careers with a nest egg in our back pockets."

"I didn't—" he defends, scowling, but she shuts him up simply by cocking an eyebrow. He rolls his lips together. "New plan," he says after a couple seconds. "From here on out, I won't criticize your career choices if you promise to forget about the more wayward parts of my lost youth."

Maya smirks. "Are your twenties and early thirties still fair game?" she asks.

"On second thought, strike that whole thing about how I actually like you," he shoots back, and as the waitress wanders up to their table, Maya laughs.

The sound—as warm and familiar to him as Amy's groggy morning voice or Bruce's amused little snort—hits Tony square in the middle of the stomach, and he totally forgets about rattling off his lunch order to stare across the table. Maya's laugh lines bunch, the first sign that she's not some sort of ageless time traveler, and all of a sudden, Tony's a decade younger and flirting with her at a conference. 

Or a party.

Or a lunch like this one, a lucid moment in the eighteen months of haze before—

"Are you ordering or having a stroke?" Maya asks, and Tony blinks as he snaps out of his memory and back into the present. The waitress raises her eyebrows, and Maya shakes her head. "Maybe you can come back in a minute, I think—"

"Tell me about your grilled chicken with the weird sauce," he interrupts, and she snorts as he turns his attention to the waitress.

After hearing about the weird sauce, three odd sandwiches, and a very suspicious salad, Tony settles on a bowl of probably edible soup and a side of truffle fries. "Which I'm not sharing, by the way," he warns Maya, leaving her to roll her eyes as the waitress collects their menus. When they're alone again (well, relatively speaking), he leans back in his chair. "So, aside from the topic we're purposely not discussing—"

Maya tips her head to one side. "I have no problem talking about work, you know."

"—what've you been up to in the last couple years? Breaking hearts? Raising an army of brilliant miniature Mayas?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, no."

He frowns. "No?"

"There's no way we're discussing my fairly desolate personal life when we can talk about yours." Tony blinks, presumably the very picture of a truly clueless idiot, and Maya shoots him a frustrated almost-glare. "Bruce Banner?"

Despite his best efforts, Tony feels his mouth kick up into a tiny smile. Still, he picks up his water glass before asking, "You mean the physicist-turned-lawyer?" 

"No, I mean your husband," she finishes for him, and this time, he loses the battle against his idiotic grin. She huffs a little, but her face warms, proof positive that Teddy's not the only person in the family with a winning smile. "Banner's brain is the size of a small continent. Do you know how many of his papers I read during graduate school?"

"Probably about three fewer than I've read in the last seven years, honestly," Tony replies, and she holds onto her unimpressed expression for a full three seconds before shaking her head. He leans forward, his elbows on the table. "Bruce and I started dating— Well, I'm not sure we ever dated. Sometimes, I think we just fell into each other's pockets and stayed there until we accidentally fell in love. But either way, we got married around two years ago."

"And adopted a son, from what I've heard," she adds, and he nods. Distractedly, if he's honest, because talking about Bruce inevitably leads to toying with his wedding band, turning it in circles while he counts his lucky stars. Across the table, though, Maya smiles. "How old is he?"

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Isn't it rude to ask a man's age?" he questions, and he snorts at her immediate little nose wrinkle. "But since you're not really asking about my husband, Miles is fourteen. Probably the smartest kid I know, although Teddy's a little more invested in the whole school thing. Mostly because college means living with his boyfriend, and _that_ . . . "

He reaches for his water, ready to expound on Teddy and Billy's shared need to cohabitate (the sooner, the better, according to both boys), but the words all sort of grind to a halt when he catches Maya staring at him. Not gaping, not blinking, but just watching him, her expression almost completely blank. Like a clean slate, he thinks, and he forgets all about his water as he purses his lips.

Maya never even blinks. 

"Did I, uh, lose you or something?" he asks, a tiny coil of dread curling around his stomach. "Because if I need to back up, I—"

"You—" The word cracks, and Maya's brow clenches. Just once, like she's working out a tough equation in her head. Finally, though, she smiles. "You have more than one kid, don't you?"

Her relaxed tone chases away all of his momentary dread, and he snorts as he finally grabs his glass. "Lucky for us—and by that, I mostly mean Bruce—the local-level gossip train slowed down after the big queer wedding. Unless we're necking in public, the Suffolk County paparazzi mind their own business."

Maya cocks her head slightly. "Are you deliberately avoiding the question?"

"Not avoiding, just—" She raises that eyebrow again, another flashback to their past _whatever_ , and Tony glances down at his glass. "There was a pretty bad fire last fall," he explains after a couple seconds, "and these two kids lost their foster family. They already pretty much functioned as siblings, and— Well, long story short, they ended up with us. We're adopting the little one, Amy, as soon as her child welfare case closes out, and her almost-brother'll stick around, too."

He raises his eyes as the usual little spark of adoption-anticipation runs through him (feeling a lot like excitement and fear at the same time) only to discover Maya staring at him again. Instead of blank, though, she looks thoughtful. At least, until the corner of her mouth twitches. "You're going to have a daughter," she says.

He frowns enough that his brow tightens. "And?"

"And you're doomed." He scowls at her triumphant little grin, but predictably, she shakes her head. "Girls are like gale-force winds, Tony. Even when you're able to predict their movements, they leave a path of destruction a mile wide in their wake."

"Oh, and you're the expert?" he challenges, crossing his arms.

"Well, I did spend most of my childhood as a girl," she points out, and Tony holds onto his weak half-glare until her expression softens again. She leans her elbows on the table. "How old?"

"Amy?" he asks, and she nods. "Eight. My life revolves around subtraction, spelling words, and _Amelia Bedelia_."

Maya chuckles. "I think every girl around that age loves those books," she says, and for the first time all afternoon, she sounds wistful. She toys with the rim of her glass for a second before asking, "Have you always wanted kids?"

He almost snorts his water. "Me?" he demands. "No. Never in a thousand years or my wildest dreams. It only really changed after my intern—well, former intern—acquired his own bouncing bundle of gale-force wind. And even then, I think I needed Bruce to, I don't know, complete the circle."

He mimes holding—or maybe feeling up—a basketball-sized circle of _something_ , and she cocks an eyebrow at him. "Whatever happened to your boundless self-confidence?"

"I twelve-stepped my way out of it," he replies with a shrug. When she shoots him a truly skeptical look, though, he raises both hands. "Look, I have boundless self-confidence in about ninety-five fields," he admits, "but trying to raise thoughtful, hard-working kids? While they throw emotions at me all day long?" He shakes his head. "As much as I joke around about Bruce being my better half, he's the better parent. And I literally could not be their dad without him."

The waitress arrives all of a sudden, her arms full of delicious-smelling dishes (and, you know, truffle fries), and Maya smiles a little instead of actually responding. Except the smile feels distant, somehow, like spotting a familiar face on the sidewalk across the street, and by the time the waitress refills their water, the moment's gone. Tony watches as Maya unwraps her silverware and adjusts her plate, and he tries desperately to read something on her face.

At least, until she glances across the table. "You will share those truffle fries," she warns.

Tony forces himself to grin. "You'll pry them from my cold, dead hands," he informs her, and she smiles right back.

 

==

 

"The whole time, though, it felt a little like—" He wrinkles his nose, the words escaping all over again. "Okay, bad example, but: you ever watch a sitcom where a couple's in the middle of a conversation, but they're each discussing something different?" 

Next to Tony, Sam Wilson snorts. "Man, I hate those kinds of shows," he replies, still scowling at his legal pad. "Twenty-one minutes of unnecessary drama, and all for a ten-second payoff."

Tony raises his hands. "Totally agree. On an unrelated note, please never check my DVR for _Modern Family_ reruns." The corner of Sam's mouth kicks up into one of his infectious grin, but Tony just flops back in his seat. "My point is, my whole conversation with Maya felt like that. Like we kept dancing around something, except this time, we missed the ten-second resolution. You know?"

He stretches out his legs in front of him, an attempt to get comfortable on the horrible wooden bench, and for the first time in the last ten minutes, Sam finally lifts his head. He studies Tony for a moment, his attention razor-sharp despite the constant flow of foot traffic in and out of the nearby courtroom. Finally, though, he asks, "And you're telling me this because?"

Tony shrugs. "Proximity, mostly," he admits, and the guy elbows him in the ribs.

The appellate court building in the state capital feels more like a cathedral than a courthouse, thanks mostly to the high ceilings, wide corridors, and fake marble floors. Like somebody with incredible wealth devoted a lot of time and effort into designing the place before realizing that appellate courts don't actually entertain that many guests, which explains the peeling paint and occasional burnt-out lightbulb. In his more charitable moments, Tony likes to imagine the place a hundred years back, when the janitorial staff polished every inch of the place instead of just emptying the trash cans.

In other moments, he pretends the place is the mausoleum where talented judges dissolve into dust.

Today, though, the building's the home to a literal crowd of school children, all of them giddy with the prospect of glimpsing real-life lawyers in their natural habitat. A couple of them stare at Tony and Sam as they pass by, wide-eyed with wonder, and Tony maintains his aura of mystique by only finger-waving at four or five of them.

Okay, more like a dozen.

Look: they're cute, and he's weak. End of story.

He waits for another gaggle of kids (in matching school t-shirts, no less) to wander by before he glances over at Sam. "So, after hearing the _Reader's Digest_ version, what do you think?" 

Sam flicks his gaze back over without ever raising his head. "Honestly?"

"Please."

"I think this is my first oral argument and you're trying to psych me out."

Tony very nearly snorts at his dry tone until he realizes exactly how serious Sam holds his expression. He raises his eyebrows. "Wait, seriously?" he asks. "You really think I'd do that to you?"

Sam shrugs. "In my defense, I've met you."

"Well, okay, point taken." The guy huffs lightly—like a laugh, really—and Tony nudges their knees together. "They're gonna ask about any place the case feels, well, mushy," he says, ignoring Sam's baffled little frown. "Inconsistent law, bad facts, procedural hiccups, stuff like that. You know your case cold, you'll be fine. The biggest challenge's not wetting your pants when Judge Herrera opens his mouth."

Immediately, Sam's face crumples in, like a kid discovering the truth about Santa and the Easter Bunny on the same day. "I thought Ellison was the tough one."

"Ellison asks tough questions, sure," Tony replies, "but they're usually line-drives. Straight on point and always fair. Herrera likes to toss out crazy hypotheticals. You know, the 'let's say your client drove a moped instead of a car and drank antifreeze instead of grain alcohol' kind of bullshit." He shakes his head. "He'll break your spirit and enjoy every second of it."

For a second, Sam just stares at him, his lips slightly parted and his jaw twitching a bit. Finally, though, he draws in a breath. "You know, I almost want thank you for your insider's knowledge," he says.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Only almost?"

"Since it's that or wanting to reverse time back to before you started talking, yeah. Almost."

Despite Sam's stricken tone, Tony smiles. "Fair enough."

Somehow, that reply coaxes another little snort out of Sam, and when Tony tries nudging his knee again, the guy kicks him lightly in the ankle. Like the way he plays around with Bucky, Tony thinks, and he feels a tiny spark of pride at reaching Barnes-level acceptance. By the time Sam slides his handwritten notes into his brief, he looks pretty much back to normal, ready to disarm his enemies with a lazy grin.

But instead of beating a hasty retreat, he turns toward Tony. "You said you guys agreed to stay in touch, right?" he asks. "You and this Maya character, I mean"

Tony nods. "Exchanged phone numbers and everything."

"Then my best guess is that she's waiting to fill in the blanks somewhere down the line." When he frowns just enough that his brow tightens, Sam flashes him one of those thousand-watt smiles. "You like wearing most of your life on your sleeve," he points out, "and far as I can tell, it works out pretty well for you. But the rest of us normal people? We're weak. We need time."

Tony snorts and rolls his eyes. "I don't expect other people to bare their souls, I just—"

"No, see, that's totally what you expect," Sam breaks in, his one hand raised. "Everybody else needs to be ready on your schedule, otherwise you don't know how to deal with them." He shrugs when Tony rolls his lips together. "I'm not saying it's a character flaw or anything. I'm just saying you might need to wait."

Tony shifts a little, his lips still pursed hard enough that he swears he's about to taste blood. "I'm trying to make amends, you know," he says.

And just like always, Sam grins. "'Cause you didn't already include that in three of our Catan chats and your _Reader's Digest_ version," he retorts, and pats Tony's shoulder as he stands. 

Pepper walks up to collect Tony a moment later, radiant as a sunbeam and surprisingly patient despite spending seven of her last nine waking hours (and, arguably, years) as his personal babysitter. They walk into the courtroom together, and the second he spots the gleaming wooden bench in the front of the room, all of that inner turmoil just drains away. Fades to nothingness, a shadow eradicated by the gentle glow of ornate chandeliers and the echo of their footsteps as they head to the front row of the gallery. Like parishioners entering a cathedral, he thinks, except the only higher power filling up this room is justice.

Pepper raises an eyebrow. "You're quiet," she observes. "Why are you quiet?"

Tony smiles. "The awesome power of appellate review," he replies half-seriously.

Unsurprisingly, she rolls her eyes.

After the forces of good (that is, Tony and—maybe more importantly—Sam Wilson) verbally eviscerate their opposition, Pepper abandons him in hallway to run some paperwork up to the clerk's office. "You work in mysterious ways!" he shouts at her back, but despite all the strangers gaping at him, she just waves over her shoulder. Sam stands a couple feet away, talking excitedly with a petite gal Tony recognizes from one of Bruce's law school classes, and Tony spends a socially acceptable amount of time waiting for someone to notice him before digging out his cell phone.

What? He's a man in the twenty-first century. Of course he's going to check his phone.

He scrolls through the predictable flurry of work e-mails, deleting the usual bar association spam and flagging a couple alerts from their electronic filing system before switching over to his text messages. He skips over a Rogers-Barnes bicker battle on the group chat to open up his messages from Bruce.

**My Generally Better Half:** _Jessica is a little worried about Teddy. She suggested you talk to him._

**My Generally Better Half:** _I'm assuming that the lack of gloating means you've already started argument._

**My Generally Better Half:** _Steve asks that you be nice to Sam if you see him. He's apparently very nervous. Please don't hold his last three Catan victories against him._

**My Generally Better Half:** _(Until after you're finished. My addition, not Steve's.)_

Something about the perfect dryness of the last line hits Tony right in the stomach, and instead of reverting back to all his stupid pre-argument worries—about mending fences, about incomplete conversations, about the holes in his own history—he only thinks about how much he adores Bruce. Not the whole family as a unit, not his kids (singularly or collectively), but his husband, the man who helped drag him out of the rubble of his mostly ruined life. The man who keeps loving him, despite all his faults and foibles. 

_i don't deserve you_ , he types, because somehow, nothing else feels like the right response. _just for the record_

His phone displays the three-dot "thinking" bubble for a shamefully long time before Bruce responds, _Most days, the feeling's mutual._

Immediately, Tony grins. _only most?_

_Well, I have shared an enclosed space with you after you've gorged yourself on ice cream,_ his husband reminds him, and he laughs.

It's only after he and Pepper climb into the car for the long ride home that he spots another unread message in his list of text message conversations, this one from an unfamiliar number. Still, he's pretty sure of the contents even as he thumbs it open, his gut surprisingly dread-free for once.

_Hey Tony, it's Maya. Enjoyed lunch the other day. How would you feel about dinner sometime?_

And unlike with the e-mails (and, to be fair, the conversation with Bruce in the backyard), Tony smiles. _depends on how you feel about meeting the family_ , he types, and sends the message without a second thought. 

 

==

 

"I'm not the one making this a thing!"

Miles's voice echoes through the house like a gunshot, but it's the hard crack of his slammed bedroom door that inspires Tony's full-body flinch. The sound fades away quickly, a seamless transition into the calm before the storm, and Tony counts to about seven before he hears his husband sigh. 

"We don't slam doors, Miles," Bruce says from upstairs, his tone tense but still perfectly even. "If you're frustrated, we'll talk, but we don't—"

"No, you mean _I_ don't slam them. Right?" The next bang sounds distinctly like a doorknob hitting a wall, and Tony works hard not to cringe. "That's what you mean. Because when _Amy_ gets pissed off and slams a door—"

"Do not turn this into another argument about your sister!" Bruce snaps, his anger palpable even from the living room. 

This time, the door crashes shut before Tony even inhales.

Tucked up in the corner of the couch, Teddy releases a low whistle. "Remind me to never piss Bruce off," he comments, and finally unmutes the TV.

Tony scowls at him from his place at the bottom of the stairs, but the opening jingle to _Girl Meets World_ feels like a welcome distraction from whatever fresh hell's brewing up in the hallway. Still, he more-or-less holds his breath until he hears Bruce heave another long sigh, and he sticks to shallow half-breaths until he hears the door upstairs creak open.

He counts to thirty, and when no more border skirmishes break out to ruin the father-son farewell to arms, he walks over and drops heavily onto the couch. 

Teddy slides him the bowl of Doritos. "Fourteen minutes," he reports.

Tony tries not to grit his teeth. "From start to finish, or—"

"I stopped timing it when you walked in." He nods, focusing his attention on the chips instead of the worry that churns through his gut. "And before you ask, I'm not sure what started it. I walked Amy out to Kate's car, and when I came back inside . . . " 

He shrugs and stretches his legs out to rest on the coffee table, and Tony loses a second to studying him. Someday, he'll figure out how two of the highest-strung adults in the universe scored the world's most laid-back foster kid. In the meantime, he scrapes Cool Ranch dust off a chip and asks, "If you had to guess what set him off?"

"Life?" Tony cocks an eyebrow, and Teddy sighs. "No offense, Tony, but he's Miles _and_ he's fourteen. Sometimes, I think a breeze pisses him off."

He keeps his eyes focused on the TV, a tell-tale method for downplaying the worry in his face (and, maybe more importantly, in his voice), and Tony rolls his lips together. Aside from the shrill preteens on the Disney channel, everything's quiet and calm. A ceasefire, he thinks, and kind of hates himself for it.

He helps himself to a couple more chips. "Think the Latina Ladies will show back up before Amy's bedtime?" he asks.

Teddy snorts hard enough that he almost chokes on his soda. "You've met Kate and America, right?" he retorts, and Tony rolls his eyes. 

They watch the show through its first commercial break—not, of course, that Tony's actually following the plot. Instead, he spends ten whole minutes waiting for another barrage of shouts from upstairs—or worse, a second symphony of slammed doors. He's not sorry that his early-evening trip to Target (and inevitable run-in with the Barton-Coulsons and their sticky-faced almost-spawn) saved him from witnessing whatever kicked off this week's hysteria, but he still wishes he could help. 

Not, of course, that intervention or supervision ever stops Miles from pushing all of Bruce's buttons until he loses his temper. No, they're way too alike (and more importantly, too stubborn) to let a little thing like a worried husband-and-father interrupt their worst moments.

Tony drags a hand over his face.

Sometimes, he almost misses single life. Almost.

But rather than admit that aloud, he glances over at Teddy. "How's group therapy going, by the way?"

The kid jerks his head away from the television, the surprise on his face pretty clear. Well, surprise with a healthy side of confusion, which reminds Tony a lot of the puzzled frowns his almost-son saves for his AP biology questions. They stare at each other for a couple seconds before Teddy finally narrows his eyes. "You're asking about group?" he questions.

"Is that a problem?" He screws up his face, his expression inching from "baffled" to "suspicious," and Tony raises his hands. "Hey, I went to group therapy, remember? And individual therapy. And some kind of trauma-recovery therapy with a really long name. Between that and my status as father of the year, I think I'm allowed to ask."

Immediately, Teddy scowls. "I told Amy not to buy you that coffee mug," he complains.

"But she did," Tony fires back, and the kid rolls his eyes. "And even if you strip me of my well-deserved title, I still—" 

"Yeah, but are you just _asking_?" Teddy elbows into the word, his eyebrows climbing up to his hairline as Tony blinks innocently. "Tony, I know how you work, and sometimes, you sort of nose around for information."

"I would _never_ —" he defends, but he buttons his lip the second Teddy crosses his suspiciously strong arms across his chest. The staring contest resumes, tenser than ever; Tony drums his fingers against his knee, waiting impatiently for the teenager to break the damn silence. But of course, he holds firm until Tony huffs out a breath. "You know as well as I do how stuff like this can spiral out of control in a hurry," he finally says. "One day, you're doing okay, and the next . . . " He shrugs, the weakest form of punctuation, and Teddy nods. "I'm not trying to root around in your inner turmoil. I just need to ask. For Miles."

"For Miles," Teddy echoes. His attention drifts back to the television for a second, but Tony's not really surprised when he picks up the remote and plunges them into silence. They sit like that for a long time before Teddy runs fingers through his hair. "I think he's kind of . . . hurt?" he answers, the uncertainty in his voice hitting Tony in the stomach like a ton of bricks. "It comes out as anger because that's easier for him. Like America, but with less swearing." When Tony snorts, Teddy almost smiles. "But deep down, I'm pretty sure something's just hurting him. Like a hole you can't quite fill, you know?"

For the first time all night, he sounds sort of wistful, enough that Tony abandons his bowl on the coffee table and scoots down the couch. "We need to talk about the holes you can't fill?" he needles.

Teddy wrinkles his nose. "You trying to change the subject?"

"No, I'm building rapport before I weasel more intel out of you." Tony nudges their shoulders together. "Ted, if something's going on—"

"I wouldn’t know." He frowns hard enough that his brow creases, but Teddy just shakes his head. "He never tells me anything important. I think he wants to, but he's a little afraid I'll rat him out to you guys."

Tony cocks his head to the side. "And would you?"

"Depending on how bad it is? In a heartbeat." The second he parts his lips to protest (or maybe, he secretly suspects, just to express his serious _surprise_ ), Teddy holds up a hand. "Like you said, I know how bad feelings can turn into a misery black hole. And sure, everything with Tristan hurt like hell, but if something happened to Miles, I'd—"

The word cracks, an almost broken little noise, and he clears his throat even as he shakes his head. His next couple breaths sound shaky, almost lost, and all of a sudden, Tony's reminded of how recently Teddy's whole life crumbled right in front of him. Like watching steam dissipate on wind, he thinks, but that metaphor feels a little too close to smoke to say aloud. Instead, he slings an arm around Teddy's shoulders. "You're a good brother," he says, and he squeezes his kid a little too hard when he snorts. "I'm serious. You looked out for Amy, and now, you're on double duty. That's hard work, even for you."

Teddy shrugs. "They'd do the same for me."

"No, they'd sell you down the river for a Klondike bar and a couple merit badges, but I appreciate your optimism." He huffs a laugh, but Tony still catches how he dabs at his eyes when he looks away. He rubs Teddy's arm. "We need to switch the subject over to you? Talk about school, your friends, your dreamy boyfriend?"

Scowling, Teddy elbows Tony in the ribs. "He's not dreamy," he defends even as a blush crawls up his neck. "He's just—"

"'The most perfect guy in the universe?'" Tony finishes. When Teddy gapes at him, his mouth literally hanging open, Tony shrugs. "Dramatic performances from your diary really help Amy's reading comprehension, you know."

In all honesty, the embarrassed groan that bubbles up out of the back of Teddy's throat sounds painful.

Tony grins anyway.

 

==

 

Late that night, in the quiet of their bedroom, Tony curls up behind Bruce and buries his face in his neck. "You wanna talk about it?" he murmurs, his lips against Bruce's skin.

His husband sighs and inches closer. "Not tonight," he admits, and tangles their fingers together.

 

==

 

"So, wait," Miles says, his brow creasing far enough that Tony's head hurts. "You invited your ex-girlfriend—"

Tony flinches. "You know, come to think of it, 'girlfriend' might be too strong a word."

"—to dinner at your house. With your kids. And your _husband_."

His kid practically pile-drives the word, and Tony nods. "Aside from the word-choice issue, yeah. That's about right."

"Okay, but, like, _why_?"

Something about the question feels huge and heavy, like the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, and Tony actually plants his feet as he waits for the aftershocks. Except the kitchen never even trembles, proof positive that the real world totally missed his metaphor. What's worse, the rest of his family (save Miles, obviously) just continues on as normal, with Amy enjoying her juice box from her perch on the countertop and Bruce finishing up the lasagna. While smirking, Tony notes, and he narrows his eyes at his husband's back.

"Your bed to lie in," Bruce says in the smuggest tone known to mankind, and Tony ignores Amy's confused head-tilt to roll his eyes.

But before he digs up a child-friendly explanation for their big family dinner, Teddy releases a hurricane-force sigh. "Not everyone kicks off their breakups with a blood feud, Miles," he says, and his foster brother almost loses his balance when he swings around to glare at him. "Tony didn't burn this bridge, and more power to him. You, on the other hand—"

"At least I know what breaking up feels like," Miles spits, his arms crossed over his chest. "You're basically married." 

Teddy frowns at his fistful of (carefully counted) cutlery before he glances back over his shoulder, and for a minute, the boys just stare at one another, neither of them breaking what feels like a very tense silence. Finally, though, Teddy cocks an eyebrow. "Did that comeback have an end point, or—"

Miles scowls. "It just sounded better in my head, okay?" he snaps back, and Teddy snorts a laugh as he turns back to the silverware drawer.

"Do you want a girlfriend?" Amy suddenly asks Tony, her head cocked to one side. Teddy drops at least three spoons on the floor, Miles chokes on air, and Bruce— Well, claiming that Bruce merely fumbles his baking pan feels like an insult to football players everywhere. For her part, Amy shrugs, her legs swinging against the cabinets. "You like having a husband," she says, "but maybe you want a girlfriend, too. America says it's okay to like two people at the same time as long as everybody knows about it and there's no hurt feelings."

Tony gapes at her for a second, totally clueless about the proper parental response. Worse, both of his other kids just keep watching _him_ , their faces expectant. And amused, actually, although Miles wipes the grin off his face the second Tony shoots him a pointed look.

Bruce, bless his very existence, wipes his hands on his jeans. "That's a different kind of situation," he says, his voice remarkably unstrained. "Miss Hansen's just a friend, now."

"And," Tony adds, flicking his gaze over in Teddy's direction, " _your_ friends need to stop teaching your sister entry-level polyamory."

Teddy raises his hands, silverware and all. "I warned you about this back when you approved the whole Latina Ladies Who Lunch thing, but you didn't listen."

"Because I didn't realize it'd double as a course in sexuality and gender studies!" Tony retorts, and his kid actually rolls his eyes as he heads off toward the dining room. 

Miles huffs and stomps off after him, bound and determined to help set the table (and, more importantly, harass his brother over the blood feud crack from earlier), and Amy screws up her nose as they disappear around the corner. "I thought America was teaching me something important," she says, "but now everyone's making faces."

"They're just feeling a little tense," Bruce promises, and the tight, halfway nervous feeling in the pit of Tony's belly loosens as his husband kisses their girl's temple. She smiles and flops against him, suddenly a toddler in a second grader's body, and he strokes flyaway hairs out of her face. "Do me a favor and go pick up the upstairs bathroom, okay?"

She frowns. "Why?"

"Because last I checked, there was still a rubber duck armada in the bathtub." Amy wriggles, barely containing her laughter, but Bruce somehow still sweeps her off the counter and plants her on the floor. "Ducks away and dirty clothes in the hamper, okay?"

"Even Miles's clothes?" she asks, expression still suspicious.

"Especially those," Tony confirms, and she full-on fakes a shudder before darting out of the room.

He studies her as she rushes away, entranced by the bounce of her ponytail and twirl of her skirt. Or at least, that's his excuse for missing when Bruce draws up next to him and slings an arm around his waist. He sighs, nearly mirroring Amy's full-body flop, and he swears to all deities known to man that just the mere _brush_ of Bruce's fingertips against the small of his back calms him. Grounds him, really, like the third prong on an electrical plug, directing his nervousness harmlessly into the ground. 

He tips his head against Bruce's shoulder. "Too late to call her and say that we've, I don't know, developed a mild case of Ebola and need to cancel?" he wonders.

Predictably, his better half huffs a laugh. "And here, I was going to tell you that I'm proud of you."

"Are the two mutually exclusive?" Tony replies. "Because I'm pretty sure that running away with my tail between my legs is actually—"

"Unnecessary," Bruce finishes, which both works pretty well with Tony's sentence structure while totally missing the point. He scowls, ready to argue, but Bruce just offers him one of those warm, knee-weakening smiles. "It's dinner," he says, "and more than that, it's five against one."

Tony narrows his eyes. "If you're already teaming up against me with Maya, I'm well and truly fucked," he points out, and Bruce chuckles even as he leans in for a kiss.

There's nothing special about the brush of their lips—just the normal, run-of-the-mill kiss you'd expect from almost two years of marriage—but it feels like a lifeline. No, Tony corrects himself, his fingers curling in Bruce's sweater, the kiss feels like a promise, like they're renewing their vows in the middle of the kitchen, promising to have and hold and love each other from here until the end of time. He sighs against Bruce's mouth, and Bruce splays his fingers against Tony's back. 

And then, because the universe carries one hell of a vendetta against Anthony Edward Stark and everyone he loves, the doorbell rings.

The dogs lose their furry minds, catapulting off the couch to run manic circles around the living room, and Tony groans. "I hate everything," he grumbles, and Bruce at least swallows down his chuckle as he slips out of Tony's grip. Still, the guy handles dog duty like a champ and with just the right amount of high-pitched whistling, and Tony loses a few seconds to remembering how much he loves this man he married.

Just a few, though, because Maya's waiting.

He smoothes his t-shirt and jeans on his way to the front door, calm as a death row inmate on the way to his last rites. Except the paint in their front hall's a sort of warm orangey beige, and the art (all of it obtained at local galleries, most of it tasteful) definitely help offset any "green mile" feelings swirling around in Tony's gut.

Well, mostly, at least.

He draws in a steadying breath, opens the door—

—and almost slams it shut again when a little kid chirps, "Hi, Mister Tony."

"I," Tony says, a single useless syllable that pairs perfectly with his open-mouthed gaping. Because while Maya waits on their welcome mat, a bottle of wine in one hand and some sort of pastry box in the other, the whole of his attention belongs to this kid. This girl, he corrects, with dark waves of hair and a bright smile that fades into uncertainty the longer Tony gawks at her.

She twists her hands in the hem of her dress—because of course she wears a flowered dress with leggings and freaking saddle shoes—and glances up at Maya. "Did I break his brain like you said?" she asks.

Maya sighs. "You have no idea," she assures the girl, and guides them both into the house. Tony tries to protest, his jaw still hanging open, but all he manages is a strangled gurgle. She sighs. "My babysitter cancelled," she explains, "and I couldn't find a new one on such short notice."

"Your what?" Tony squeaks, the words sticky in the back of his throat, and Maya wrinkles her nose even as she pushes the wine bottle into his grip. Knowing her, she's about ten seconds from chiding him, he realizes, to call his dry-mouthed shock on the carpet and possibly tear his head right off his shoulders.

The kid—Maya's kid, his brain needles, louder than necessary—cocks her head to the side and frowns.

But while Tony works to drum up some kind of socially acceptable response, a familiar voice shrieks, "Tess!"

He cringes as his eardrums burst into flame, but the pain quickly subsides into full-on confusion as the kid's face breaks into a massive grin. "Amy?" she asks, and the second she steps off the front rug, Amy bursts out from behind Tony and collides with her hard enough that their collective balance falters. The kid—Tess, Tony realizes belatedly—laughs, her arms wrapping Amy up in a death grip, and the two of them sway together like—

Something in Tony's stomach sours.

Together like that, all gangly elementary school limbs and flowy nice-dinner dresses, they remind him a lot of Amy and Dot.

When they finally untangle, Amy tilts her joy-flushed face up to Tony. "I didn't know your girlfriend—"

Maya chokes on air, and he ignores the heat that climbs up his neck to raise both hands. "Not the right word," he reminds her.

"—was Tess's mom!" She glances over at Maya, who frankly looks just about shell-shocked as Tony feels. Good. "I mean, if you are Tess's mom. Because not every family has a mom. You just look like Tess."

Maya forces a patient little smile. "Oh, I'm definitely her mom."

"Okay," Amy replies, and her nod feels a lot like a punctuation mark. She grabs Tess's arm with both hands. "You want to see my room? We can play a game before dinner!"

Tess tosses a quick, apprehensive look over at her mother (her _mother_ , Tony's brain repeats), but Maya just shrugs. "Don't make a mess," she warns, but honestly, the girls hit the stairs before she even opens her mouth.

Tony at least waits until little girl giggles start cascading down into the hallway before he swallows. "Not to point out the obvious or anything," he says, voice a little rough around the edges, "but you kind of forgot to tell me about this particular part of your personal history."

Maya shrugs, her posture almost aggressively casual, but Tony catches the way she avoids his gaze to toy with the string on the pastry box. "You asked if I was raising an army of children. There's only the one." He huffs, rolling his eyes, and she purses her lips. "For what it's worth, I planned on telling you."

"Before or after we discovered that our kids are in the same class?" She grits her teeth like she's bracing for a fight, and Tony raises a hand. "Hey, I don't care," he says, ignoring her skeptical snort. "Better she hangs out with your daughter than that Harley kid who keeps bringing his potato guns to school. I'm just saying, when I talked about my eight-year-old—"

"I thought she'd be in third grade, not second." He blinks at her, his brow furrowing, and she finally lifts her eyes. "I did the math. I didn't think they'd be in the same grade."

"Amy doubled-down on kindergarten," he replies limply. Maya nods, every movement just the wrong side of jittery, and he resists his urge to make like that couple in the song about pronouncing vegetables and call the whole thing off. Cancel the dinner, break up the impromptu playdate, and just return to his completely ordinary life. Brilliant almost-exes need not apply.

Instead, he drags his fingers through his hair. "Your kid," he says, "she's—"

"Tess," Maya supplies. "She turned seven over the summer."

Something massive and nameless twists in the pit of Tony's stomach, forcing him to breathe around it. "Good age," he says, gesturing weakly down the hall. They're halfway to the kitchen, the silence between them as deep and wide as an Olympic-sized swimming pool, when he comments, "Thought you said you were only back in the states for a couple months."

Maya rolls her eyes. "She still needs to go to school," she reminds him, and for some reason, that little retort feels like a life raft.

Bruce greets them at the island, accepting the pastry box with the kind of easy smile that transforms Tony's knees into jelly. By the time he cracks open the wine bottle, they've passed introductions and transitioned straight into the sciences; when the boys wander in for more cutlery, they're actually laughing (and not, surprisingly, at Tony's expense).

The sight of Bruce laughing with the object of his abject horror stops Miles in his tracks, and Teddy glances up from his phone just in time to collide with his brother's back. "What the—" he tries to protest, but unsurprisingly, the words dry in his throat.

They glance between the three adults—Tony with his hip planted against the island, Bruce and Maya close enough to clink their wine glasses—before Teddy remarks, "See? No blood feud."

True to form, Miles elbows him hard enough that he sputters.

Dinner really carries on from that point, exceeding Tony's expectations while still never calming the uneasy feeling that lives somewhere between his heart and his navel. The boys open their portion of the evening by interrogating Maya on her job and personal life, but the second she proves her mettle (and, more importantly, dazzles them with her brain), they accept her as easily as Bruce. Amy and Tess linger upstairs until Bruce liberates the garlic bread from the oven, at which point Tony and Maya abandon their conversation to steer tiny fingers away from the countertops. Still, the kids provide most of the entertainment at dinner, babbling about school (Amy and Tess) and friends (Teddy and Miles) until they're pretty much blue in the face.

More than once, Tony considers stopping the conversation and apologizing to Maya for the chaos that he calls his home life. But every time, Maya interrupts his train of thought with a laugh or a story of her own, and he ends up reveling in the beautiful disaster.

After dinner, Amy demands that she and Tess play outside, meaning that Tony finds himself barefoot on the back deck with Maya at his side. They stand close enough that their shoulders almost brush, a flashback to their younger days, and watch their second graders climb all over the swing set. Like old friends, Tony thinks again, and that sour feeling from before climbs up into his chest.

He washes it down with a sip of his wine before remarking, "You named your daughter Tess."

Maya cocks an eyebrow. "As opposed to . . . "

"A botany pun, maybe?" She snorts, shaking her head, and he knocks their arms together. "Come on, I know you. You love plants in a way that leaves my green-thumbed husband looking like a total amateur. You should've named your kid Petunia. Or Fern. Amaryllis, maybe?"

Maya wrinkles her nose, but her expression dims. She glances down at her glass, her lips pursed. "Lemme guess, I'd call her Amy?"

Tony shrugs. "Pretty great name, if you ask me," he replies, his grin crooked (and, he hopes, at least halfway charming). When she huffs shakily instead of responding, though, his mirth drops away like a ton of bricks. "Look, Maya, I know we— Well, hard to say we 'had our differences' when I ditched you in a hotel room the morning after, but if something's going on—"

"Do you know how hard you're making this?" The sharp edge to her tone catches Tony off guard, leaves him snapping his mouth shut like somebody's flicked a switch, but Maya just sighs. She threads fingers through her hair as her gaze drifts back to the girls. "I thought you'd blow me off," she admits, quieter this time. "Even with this whole new leaf of yours, I expected you to be, I don't know, irresponsible. Self-centered." When she dares to glance at him, something in her eyes steals his breath. "You were supposed to be _you_. With a husband and a kid, maybe, but still the same old Tony."

Suddenly, he remembers how Pepper described him on the way to Amy's soccer game, calling him healthier and his life fuller. Still, he ignores the déjà vu and blurts, "Trust me, I'm still Tony."

"But not _my_ Tony." He frowns hard enough that his jaw twitches, but Maya shakes her head again. "Disrupting the life of that guy, the jackass from a decade ago, that felt _right_ , somehow. Like some kind of poetic justice. But seeing you like this, with your family . . . " She abandons her wine glass and grips her arms, almost hugging herself. "I can't help but think I should've just stayed in London and let sleeping dogs lie."

A sort of seasick, nauseous feeling bubbles up out of Tony's gut and into his throat, and for a second, he considers tossing back the last of his wine just to wash it all away. But the longer Maya looks at him—the more she studies him, really, her expression on just the wrong side of helpless—the more he knows that the wine's just a distraction. Instead, he swallows around the lump in his throat and says, "I know you think we're on the same page here, but I don't know what you're talking about."

Maya's mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. "I always forget how bad the former engineer is at simple addition," she teases, but her voice sounds flat. Distant, really, like a chasm's opened up between them. "Think about it, Tony: Tess turned seven back in August. Meaning that I was four months pregnant when I moved to London."

"In March," Tony provides, and he swears that the entire universe stops when Maya nods. Right there, in his backyard, everything grinds to this abrupt, noisy halt, until the world as he knows it consists of nothing but him, Maya, and some truly terrifying math. Because he remembers that March and the slow descent into madness that'd followed, when his body and mind had both thrown in the towel and forced him to reboot his entire life. But even more than that, he vividly remembers the previous December, when his months of flirting with Maya had finally developed into something brief and beautiful. When he'd coaxed her up to his hotel room after an event, pinned her against the nearest flat surface, and—

The bottom drops out of his stomach, and for one truly terrifying moment, he thinks he might throw up all over the deck.

"Tony," Maya says, "you're Tess's father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, just to reassure those of you who just yelled quietly at your computer screens: the next chapter will be up in two weeks.


	6. Married to Your Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony deals with the immediate aftermath of Maya's news. Well, okay: Tony freaks out, refuses to sleep, fails to ask any of the important questions, and disappoints at least one of his children. Pretty much par for the course, except the stakes feel a lot higher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning** : in this chapter, Tony suffers a pretty significant panic attack. Several of his intrusive thoughts continue throughout the chapter, but the attack itself is in the first scene. If you're triggered by panic attacks, I'd suggest skipping that scene; although you'll miss some initial reactions to last chapter's bombshell by the main characters, you'll still be able to follow the chapter.
> 
> Also, major spoilers for the novel _Gone Girl_. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who always improve my writing tenfold.

By the time the world snaps back into motion—into focus, really, like when the optometrist finally flips his contraption to match up with your prescription—Tony's already in the living room, trying to breathe.

Trailing right behind him, practically on his heels, Maya sighs. "Look, Tony, I'm sorry—" 

"Sorry? You're _sorry_?" He swings around to face her, acutely aware of the rough edge to his voice—and, worse, of the way his whole body trembles. He curls his hands into fists, trying to stave off the wave of panic that almost bowls him over, and forces himself to shake his head. "No, you don't— You came here, Maya. To my house, with my family, and now you're telling me—"

The words catch in the back of his throat, thick as glue and twice as sticky, and he gestures at the backdoor instead of finishing his sentence. Over it the kitchen, Bruce stops loading the dishwasher to blink at them, lasagna dish in hand. He catches Tony's gaze, his eyebrows raised, and Tony's breathing transitions from "ragged" to "practically nonexistent."

He drags fingers through his hair, a sorry attempt to steady himself. A few feet away, Maya rolls her lips together. "Tony . . . " 

"What's going on?" Bruce questions, his tone deceptively calm. Like the too-pure cinnamon rolls from Teddy's favorite internet meme, Tony thinks, and his mind almost stops skidding around in circles. 

At least, until he realizes that Bruce needs an answer.

Immediately, his throat threatens to close. He shakes his head, tries to chase that feeling away, and flaps a hand at Maya. "Ask her," he instructs, "because right now, I can't actually—"

He digs his fingers back into his hair, the panic attack equivalent of pinching yourself halfway through a nightmare, and paces to the furthest corner of the living room. But his thoughts just follow right along, bombarding him to the rhythm of his footfalls: Maya, pregnant, London, Tess, daughter. The words repeat themselves in a loop, a hideous broken record.

And worse, when he swings back around, he discovers Miles and Teddy hovering in the hallway.

Silence rushes in to fill the spaces between them, but it feels more like a dense fog than any sort of comfort, like the kind of heavy summer humidity that literally weighs you down. The boys exchange glances, Maya wrings her hands, and Bruce—

Bruce purses his lips and waits, his expression somehow expectant and worried at the same time. One glance over at him—at those soft eyes that drew Tony in a full seven years ago, really—and Tony swears that a physical hole opens up in the center of his chest and swallows up his heart.

Finally, though, Maya draws in a breath. "Let's talk privately," she suggests, but the words quiver. "I don't want to disrupt the whole night, just because—"

"Because of what you said back on the deck?" he breaks in, throwing up his hands. "Because there's no dialing in back from there, Maya. No time-turner to fix the fact that my kid's out there playing with—" He freezes, his hands still raised, and for a split second, he almost laughs aloud at the absurdity of the whole situation. At least, until he finishes, "My kid's playing with my _other_ kid."

For a second, Tony almost expects the world to jerk to another terrifying halt, but Teddy breaks through that particular flight of insanity by plastering a hand over his mouth. Next to him, Miles just stares, his mouth hanging open as his expression hovers somewhere between shock and absolute betrayal. 

And even though Tony'd braced for that kind of look from Bruce—a look that called him a traitor, a bad husband, a bad _person_ —seeing it on his son—

The hole in his chest widens into a chasm, but somehow, he still manages to swallow. To function, on some level, even as his family gapes at him. "The kid," he tells them, "she's— Well, I guess she's mine."

And before he even finishes his sentence—before the last word ever hits air—Miles storms out of the living room.

The house devolves into literal chaos after that, like the aftershock of an earthquake that originates from where Miles slams the front door. Or maybe the chaos lives inside of Tony, the side effect of his racing heart and his weak knees, because by the time his ass hits the couch, all he really hears is the rush of blood in his ears. He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly, and just focuses on breathing.

He remembers moments like this, panicking and light-headed, from his days before Four Oaks.

But those panic attacks never brought along the mantra of _bad husband, bad father_ that keeps playing through his head.

He struggles against the current of all those feelings—helplessness, uselessness, failing everyone he loves (and probably most the people he barely tolerates)—until Bruce plants a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe," he says, his voice less like a lifejacket and more like those rescue divers you see on Coast Guard commercials.

Still, Tony shakes his head. "I can't, I—"

"Breathe," Bruce repeats, harsher than before, and for the first time, Tony breaks through to the surface.

By the time he stops shuddering, his husband's hand traces lazy circles along his back, his touch so familiar and soothing that Tony finally remembers his breathing exercises from back at Four Oaks. He steadies himself that way—in through the nose, out through the mouth—for a long time before he finally lifts his head out of his hands.

Bruce smiles. "Okay?" he asks gently.

"I—" Tony starts, but the embers of panic in his stomach spark back to life almost immediately. He glances over at the sliding doors, shocked to find them closed and the blinds drawn. His heart crawls into his throat. "They're still here," he tells Bruce, "and the kids—"

"Decided to pick up Dot and grab some ice cream," Bruce interrupts, his voice still the same perfectly even lifeline as every other time Tony's melted down around him. He reaches up to cup the back of Tony's neck, his fingers sliding through his hair. "And since now's probably not the best time for a deep, soul-searching conversation, Teddy took Maya and Tess out through the side gate."

Tony snorts a little at the way Bruce's mouth twitches, but he still feels like a wrung-out dishcloth. He scrubs a hand over his face before asking, "And Miles?"

"He was sitting on the front stoop when Teddy went outside." He nods weakly, and Bruce squeezes his neck gently. "We'll talk to him. We'll talk to all three of them, and to Maya. But not right now. Okay?"

"Yeah," Tony answers, and he tips his forehead against Bruce's when he hears the roughness in his own voice. His chest shudders when he breathes in, and he holds it for a few seconds before exhaling. It steadies him, somehow, readying him to close his eyes and say, "She's my daughter."

Bruce tenses, his thumb suddenly still. "I gathered that."

"She's _mine_ ," Tony repeats, mostly for his own benefit. When Bruce says nothing—when he barely even moves, really—Tony backs away just enough to look at him. To register hesitation in his gaze, not that it really stops Tony from demanding, "What am I supposed to do with this? We have two kids already—three when we're counting Teddy—and with a fourth—"

The words stick again, his body trembling without his permission, and this time, Bruce waits for him to roll his lips together before he shakes his head. "Right now, you keep breathing," he instructs. "We'll worry about everything else in the morning."

Tony blinks. "But—"

"In the morning, Tony," Bruce insists, and presses their foreheads together again.

 

==

 

Except Tony never really sleeps.

Even after his usual cocktail of anti-anxiety pills with a tequila chaser, even after Bruce nudges him into bed and curls up next to him, his mind keeps racing. Reminding him he's a horrible human being, that he ditched Maya at the worst possible time, that his daughter spent the first seven years of her life without ever knowing him. Without knowing her _father_ , he reminds himself, one of the two people on the planet biologically predisposed to loving her.

Not, of course, that his father ever understood that part of the equation. Not that Tony really understood the concept, either, until Bruce and Miles.

And Amy, he thinks, and remembers how the girls'd swayed together in the hallway.

And Teddy, too, the kid who's as reliable as the tide.

He groans and presses his face into the pillow.

"Sleep," Bruce says, not for the first time, spreading his fingers across Tony's chest.

And when he finally drifts off, hours later, he dreams about Maya. 

 

==

 

"After your teenager kicked us out, I figured you were done talking to me."

Maya delivers the line with a wryness Tony remembers from their younger days, and he snorts a little as he drops onto the park bench next to her. His body still feels foreign and tense, almost like another person's skin, but he disguises the sensation by slinging his arms along the back of the bench. Or at least, he _tries_ to disguise it; from the way Maya watches at him, her lips pursed, he knows he's fighting a losing battle.

He sits there for a second, his fingers drumming against the wood, before he asks, "Where's the kid?"

Her jaw tenses. "Tess," she corrects.

"Fine, Tess," he echoes, the word clumsy on his tongue as he glances over at her. "I figured you picked the park because of the playground, but since we're the only people here—"

"She's with our neighbor," Maya cuts in. "I figured after last night . . . " She trails off to shake her head, and Tony resists the urge to cringe and apologize—a reflex he only learned after meeting Bruce. Either way, she studies him for a second before countering, "You bring the cavalry?"

He nearly smiles. "That what you're calling him?"

"You have a better suggestion?"

"The thin rumpled line?" he proposes, and she snorts even as she looks back to the playground. "And kind of, yeah. He's in the car. He didn't—" His voice fails him again, a pretty persistent problem from the last eighteen hours, and he drags a hand through his hair. "I hadn't had a panic attack in a long time," he admits, "and I don't know if another one's waiting around the bend. Thought I might need backup."

Maya's head bobs. "Must be nice," she murmurs.

He frowns. "Panic attacks are never—"

"Not those," she interrupts, tossing a quick glance at him. "The backup."

"Oh," he says weakly, and her mouth twitches almost imperceptibly as she turns back to the playground. 

A cold October wind sweeps across the park, kicking up woodchips and what feels like a metric ton of dead leaves, and Tony drops his arms into his lap. Onto his thighs, actually, his whole body leaning forward as he watches the suspended bridge sway. To steel himself against the cold, mostly, but he knows in the pit of his stomach he's also bracing himself against the conversation.

They sit in silence for a long time, simultaneously separated by about two feet of splintery wood and an entire lifetime. Because right now, the last eight years feel like decades—like eons, with civilizations rising and failing around them—and as hard as he tries, Tony's clueless on how to bridge that gap.

After another few minutes of silence, he draws in a slow, steadying breath. "You're sure?" When Maya whips her head around to gape at him, he raises his hands. "I need to ask," he defends. "I know it's a shitty question, but after everything—"

"I'm sure, Tony," she breaks in, hurt evident in her tone. Just like he'd predicated to Bruce, Tony thinks, the worst kind of hollow victory. She tucks hair behind her ear. "I wanted to date you badly enough that— Well. I'm sure you remember my pathetic desperation."

"It wasn't—" he retorts, but Maya just rolls her eyes. He threads his fingers together, trying not to toy with his wedding band. "People liked you," he says after a beat. "Not just people. Men. Even with me hovering around the edges, I would've assumed . . . "

He shrugs, trailing off, and she almost smiles. "Hard to date around when you're waiting on your white knight," she points out. "There was one other guy—a friend, really—but we were careful. A _lot_ more careful than when you and I slept together."

For the first time all morning, Tony almost grins. "We were the exact inverse of careful. Hell, we almost missed the bed."

"Exactly," she replies, and the matter-of-fact certainty in her tone turns Tony's blood to ice.

He glances at his hands, working for a moment to remember all the questions from that morning. Questions he'd brainstormed together with Bruce, their legs pressed together at the breakfast bar. With Miles and Amy's decision to crash over at the Rogers-Barnes house (a decision inspired by their big brother, no doubt), everything'd felt eerily calm, like the world after a nuclear winter. Still, Tony'd shared a cup of coffee with his husband and discussed the new elephant in the room without naming her, focusing instead on dates, probabilities, and a thousand unanswered questions.

Except all those questions fly out of Tony's mind when he blurts, "Does she know?" Maya blinks at him, obviously surprised, and he twists his wedding ring on his finger. "Tess. Since you brought her all the way here, I just thought . . . "

He shrugs, somehow unable to finish the thought, and Maya smiles gently even as she shakes her head. "No," she admits, and Tony fights to ignore how his heart crash-lands in his stomach. "I thought about telling her after we left your house, but I didn't know how."

"Hard to explain why her dad's foster kid kicked you out on short notice?" he guesses.

Maya snorts. "Something like that," she replies. He nods weakly, not quite sure how to fill the latest silence that spools out between them, when she says, "August 9."

He raises his eyebrows. "I don't—"

"Her birthday." Tony's chest tightens without his permission, almost choking him, but Maya just stares down at her hands. "Tesla Adelaide. The middle name's after my grandmother, but her first's because—"

"We always argued about whether he was a mad scientist or just completely unappreciated in his time." His voice sounds scratchy, like somebody's replaced his throat and tongue with sandpaper, but the corner of Maya's mouth tips up into a smile. He studies her face for a moment, that hint of the woman he knew eight years ago, before he asks, "What else?"

Her throat bobs as she glances over at him. "There's no turning back. You know that, right? If I start telling you about her—not just that she exists, but who she is—you . . . " She pauses, her eyes searching his face for a moment. "You won't be strangers. Not anymore."

Despite the huge bolus of fear (and anticipation, and dread, and hope) in his stomach, Tony still manages a smile. "I don't want to be a stranger to my kid," he says, and squeezes Maya's wrist.

 

==

 

"And?" Bruce prompts.

"And honestly, I don't know what I'm supposed to think," Tony admits, inspiring a long, unsteady breath from his better half. He raises his hands. "I know you want me to take everything she says with a planet-sized grain of salt, Bruce, but trust me: it all lines up. Her age, her birthdate, the details of when we—" He wastes a second struggling for the right euphemism before shaking his head. "And even if you ignore all that, the fact is that I can't imagine Maya lying. Not about this."

Bruce nods absently, his gaze distant as he slides his hands into his jacket pockets. Like with the playground, the path around the park's pretty deserted aside from a few overzealous joggers. They nod or smile as they pass, but as much as Tony tries to play his part as the friendly queer guy on a walk with his husband—all his smiles feel forced. Like somebody's threatened him with a cattle prod, he thinks, and snorts a little.

His husband cocks an eyebrow, but he just waves a hand. "Nothing on point," he promises, shrugging. "Just something funny. Cattle prods."

For the first time all morning, the corner of Bruce's mouth kicks up into a grin. "Maybe for your birthday," he jokes, and Tony rolls his eyes.

They fall quiet again, their shoulders brushing clumsily on every third or fourth step. A constant reminder of Bruce's boundless dependability, even in the silences. The man's as steady as the tide, and the second Tony realizes that, he seriously considers grabbing Bruce and kissing him breathless.

But every touch feels fragile right now, liable to disintegrate into dust at any second.

Tony, like Bruce, hides his hands in his pockets.

"What about the rest of the questions?" Bruce asks as they reach the tennis courts. Tony purses his lips against the guilt that wells up in his gut, and his husband sighs. "Tony—" 

"I know," Tony interrupts. "And I really wanted to ask all of them, in numerical order, just like we rehearsed. But every time I thought about them, I . . . " Bruce tilts his head as he studies him, and the silent challenge looms between them until Tony finally drops his gaze down to the path. "I didn't know how," he admits, the words barely qualifying as a murmur. "I thought it'd be easy, but as soon as Maya started recapping the last seven years of her life, I couldn't ask. Not before I really know her."

Bruce nods again, a little jerkier than before, and suddenly, Tony recognizes his expression. Because while he'd wasted most the morning scanning his husband's face for a hundred different emotions—anger, hurt, disappointment, betrayal—he'd never even stopped to look for distance. For _loss_ , really, and suddenly, Tony feels the giant canyon that stretches out between them.

Except this time around, the canyon boasts a summer birthday and a love of math word problems.

"Hey." Bruce stumbles when Tony grabs him by the wrist to stop him, but his whole body softens the second he realizes that Tony's sweeping him into a hug. Their bodies collide roughly, their arms tangling together without any real hesitation, and Tony only breathes properly after he presses his face into Bruce's shoulder. Better still, he almost melts when Bruce nuzzles into his hair.

Bruce's quiet sigh sounds mostly like a symphony.

"I'm sorry," Tony murmurs after a few seconds, his face dangerously close to his husband's neck. "I know this all predates, well, us, but I still— I'm sorry for the guy I used to be, and for dropping all this on you. Most people'd probably cut and run, but you—"

"Married your past as much as your future, Tony." He jerks his head up, an almost Pavlovian response to that tiny glimmer of praise, and Bruce smiles gently as he cards his fingers through Tony's hair. "I wouldn't have said 'I do' if I couldn't handle a few rough patches. I just . . . "

He shakes his head a little, almost like clearing away the cobwebs, and Tony frowns. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Bruce." When his husband dips his head, Tony cranes his neck just fair enough to catch his eyes. "No letting something eat you alive," he chides. "Not today. Not when we're in this weird, uncharted territory."

Bruce snorts. "Isn't that the only kind we know?" he questions, and he smiles a little when Tony wrinkles his nose. Still, the little glimmer of joy fades pretty quickly, and he rolls his lips into a tight line. "Promise me you'll be careful."

Tony blinks. "Careful?" he parrots. "Honey, I know you're a physicist and everything, but the 'careful with Maya' ship sailed a little over seven—"

"You fall in love like a landslide," Bruce interrupts, and the fondness in his tone hits Tony square in the chest. "You never stop to think about it, never hesitate; the first boulder falls, and you're on a race to the bottom. And I love you for that, but—" He pauses for a moment, his throat bobbing. "I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"By me loving my kid?" Tony asks.

"By any of us moving too fast." He frowns again, his brow tightening, and Bruce sighs. "We can't rush into this, Tony," he cautions. "Not just for our sake, but for the kids. And if you factor in everyone else—our friends, our colleagues, the rest of the Stark Industries board . . . " He trails off, his head shaking, and Tony works desperately to ignore the unsteady feeling that trembles through his entire body. "We obviously need to talk to the kids," Bruce continues, "and probably warn a couple of our close friends. Pepper, Steve, the usual suspects. But until we know Tess a little better and you take a paternity test—"

"You think I need a test?" Tony blurts. Immediately, Bruce buttons his lip, and they lose a good thirty seconds to gaping at each other. Like playing chicken with your emotions, Tony thinks, and his skin suddenly feels three sizes smaller than normal. "I trust her on this one, Bruce," he admits after a few more seconds. "As bad as I hurt Maya, I can't imagine her risking her kid just to exact a little revenge. You know?"

"And all the honesty in the world won't help in court," Bruce reminds him. "If you want to be her father—her actual father, not a legal stranger with no real relationship to her—you need to take a paternity test. Just to be sure."

He splays his hand over Tony's hip, this almost possessive little burst of affection, and Tony tips into his touch like a greedy cat. "You know, I sometimes hate that beautiful child welfare brain that's rattling around up there," he complains.

Bruce smiles. "No, you don't," he replies, and kisses Tony's temple. 

 

==

 

"Are you _sure_ you're Tess's daddy?"

Amy narrows her eyes as she asks, her face the textbook definition of elementary-school suspicion, and for a second, Tony almost smiles. Better still, he weathers the storm of her crossed arms and wrinkled nose, never mind her impatient little butt-wriggle.

Miles, on the other hand, just scowls. "Don't you listen?" he demands, glaring at her. "He just said he and Tess's mom, like, hooked up or whatever. What else do you want? A family tree?"

Clearly oblivious to her brother's frustration, Amy frowns. "Teddy never said that hooking up is how people make babies."

And from his new position wedged firmly under the bus, Teddy chokes on his soda.

Bruce clears his throat suddenly, just one of a thousand different ways he chides their children without ever uttering a single word, and immediately, all three kids dip their heads. Like guilty puppies who broke out of their cage, Tony thinks, and he nearly chuckles to himself. Except naughty-puppy guilt really belongs in a family meeting about missing ice cream sandwiches and missed curfews, not—

The words _wayward daughters_ pop into Tony's head without his permission, and immediately, the last twelve-plus hours rush up to meet him. Suddenly, he feels a little like a skydiver without a parachute, and he draws in a breath as he braces for impact. But when the moment of abject fear finally passes, he discovers that he's still sitting in his living room, his ass on his coffee table as he faces the three people he loves more than anything else in the universe:

His children.

His beautiful, stubborn, enigmatic children—the three most incredible gifts that he never really expected to receive. 

All at once, the thought of adding in Tess—the daughter he barely knows, the girl who looks like a seven-year-old version of her mother—feels completely impossible. 

But before he even _starts_ figuring out how to explain all that, Miles asks, "Did you just find out?"

Tony blinks. "What?"

His son rolls his eyes. "This surprise kid crap," he answers. "Did Maya _just_ tell you, or did you already know?"

"You really think I kept this a secret?" Tony demands, and a vaguely seasick feeling washes over him when Miles shrugs and glances at the nearest wall. "Look, kid, I know we kind of screwed the pooch on this. Let you sulk it out with the Rogers-Barneses instead of facing it head on. But if you think for even a second that we swept this under the rug—"

"Tony." 

Somehow, the unshakeable calm in Bruce's voice snaps Tony right out of his miniature tirade, and he snaps his mouth shut before he blurts out some defensive bullshit he'll regret for the rest of his natural life. From his spot behind the couch, though, his husband just smiles, and Tony nods even as he scrubs a hand over his face.

Still tucked in his corner of the couch, Miles pokes idly at a throw pillow. Next to him, Amy hugs her knees to her chest, and Teddy—sweet, patient, nearly unflappable Teddy—ruffles her messy hair.

Tony sighs. "Last night," he says, not that Miles's nod really comforts him. "Maya dropped all of this on me last night after dinner."

"And Tess and Amy are in class together?" Teddy asks.

Tony nods. "Right."

"And you did grown-up things with Tess's mom?" Everyone, even Miles, twists to gape at Amy, and the girl immediately scowls at them. "What? America and Kate said that sometimes, you can have babies by using science. That's how Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky had Dot, because they're boys and don't have v—"

Teddy's hands shoot into the air. "Everyone here knows how to make babies!" he interrupts, his face flaring a lovely shade of magenta. "I'm really sorry. I keep telling them to tone it down with her. They're just, you know, terrible human beings who shouldn’t be trusted with children."

Tony purses his lips, and Bruce hides his grin behind a hand. Amy, however, huffs and crosses his arms. "All I said was—" 

"Truth is, I really cared about Tess's mom." Somehow, Tony's honesty actually surprises him, and he watches as Amy slowly closes his mouth. He studies the four people he loves most in the world—his _family_ , he reminds himself—before shaking his head. "I maybe even loved her a little bit, which sounds great on paper but really scared me. And that's why I never knew about Tess until right now: I ran away from Maya, and I left them both alone." Miles and Teddy both duck their heads, their expressions distant, but Amy just nods. "I guess you can say Tess came out of all the things I felt for her mom. But please, next time you see them? Ask your uncles all about their science baby."

Amy grins, and for one glorious second, Tony's heart feels lighter. Like a stone with a whole lot of balloons attached, he thinks, and he actually winks when Amy dodges his attempt to squeeze her foot. She tips into Teddy until he slings an arm around her, and from his spot hovering on the sidelines, Bruce's shoulders finally soften.

Miles, on the other hand, rolls his lips together. "What happens next?"

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Meaning?"

"Meaning how bad is everything going to change?"

All at once, Tony's little balloons burst into a million pieces, and his heart crash-lands in his gut hard enough that he almost forgets how to breathe. Worse, Teddy flinches and jostles his sister, who immediately catches the change in the atmosphere and hides her face in his arm. 

But Bruce, the patron saint of wayward parents, simply walks around the back of the couch to squeeze their son's shoulder. "Nothing's going to change," he promises, and in that second, even Tony believes him. "We might need a little adjustment time, but when it comes to our family—" 

"Except things always change," Miles reminds him, and he jerks away just far enough to glare at his favorite father. "No matter how hard you try, there's always something new. Something that gets messed with, because life's never just normal." His voice wavers a little, and he shakes his head. "I'm so sick of nothing being _normal_."

Tony shrugs. "Normal's a pretty relative term, you know."

Miles snorts. "Yeah, and you're the expert on relatives right now," he retorts, and shoves himself up off the couch.

Bruce and Tony both reach for him, this pathetic parental attempt to pin him in place, but like always, Miles slips right out of their grip and charges up the stairs. His slammed door sounds like a gunshot in the relative quiet of the living room, and Amy clenches her shoulders as she burrows into her big brother. 

Tony studies her for a long moment—her hidden face, her mass of messy curls—before he finally stands. "Hold the fort," he says, expertly ignoring Bruce's worried little frown. "I made this bed for all of us. Might as well tuck our kid in before he's forced to sleep in it."

Teddy snorts a little at his blatant abuse of cliché, but Bruce just rolls his lips together. "He might not want to talk to you," he warns.

Tony shrugs. "Guess we'll find out," he replies, but he squeezes Bruce's arm as he walks out of the room. 

Trudging up the stairs reminds him a little of Amy's favorite fairy tale, Rapunzel. Only in this story, the princess's a guy who designed his own lonely prison, all thanks to some wild oats sown close to a decade ago. He stands at the top of the stairs for a long time, studies the family portrait (one of the many Steve Rogers originals) hanging in the hallway, and tries to steel his nerves.

When all those attempts fail, he knocks on Miles's bedroom door.

For a second, all he hears is the rustle of bedsheets. But just as he counts to five—the outer limit of his patience, right now—his kid grumbles, "Go away."

"Yeah, that’s pretty unlikely," Tony replies, leaning against the wall. "Wanna try that again?"

"No, I don't. Just like I don't want to talk to you."

"Except I'm the parent," Tony counters, "and you're obviously upset. Times like these, you don't really get a choice. It's in the fatherhood handbook and everything."

Despite the closed door and obvious distance (physical and emotional) between them, he swears he hears Miles snort. But way more importantly, he _definitely_ hears his kid say, "Fine, whatever."

Miles's bedroom, like the bedrooms of most teenagers, closely resembles the site of a natural disaster, with clothes and books strewn pretty much everywhere: desk, bed, dresser, floor. Just walking over to the kid's desk chair means dodging shoes, chargers, and a suspicious number of balled-up tissues; sitting down requires relocating a massive stack of presumably clean clothes. By the time he balances the pile on top of the (closed and empty) laundry hamper, a head's emerged from the cocoon of blankets in the middle of the bed. 

Tony pretends to avert his eyes as Miles wipes his face and draws in a long breath, but he knows without a second thought that he's only fooling himself.

He waits until his sheet-mummified child sits up to ask, "What's going on with you, kid?"

Miles immediately rolls his eyes. "You sprung a sister on me and waited, like, a whole day to actually admit it."

Tony cringes. "Well, okay, fair enough," he acknowledges, and his kid huffs even as he picks at his bedspread. "But aside from the whole Tess thing—something I wanna talk about, by the way—you're still acting a little . . . " He wriggles his hand, expecting at least the hint of a smile, but Miles never even glances at him. Tony rolls his lips together. "There's more going on than what happened last night. Right?"

Miles's shoulders slump, all the fight draining out of him in record time. He stares at his hands for a few seconds before saying, "You wouldn't understand."

The comment feels like a pinprick right in the center of his chest, but somehow, Tony still raises his eyebrows. "Try me," he dares.

"No."

They fall silent after that, the room transforming into the world's most disorganized tomb. Tony briefly considers calling in backup—marching downstairs, collecting his husband, and tag-teaming their kid until he spills the beans—but the longer he watches Miles, the more he realizes that his usual good-natured needling won't work here. He's thrust all of them into uncharted waters, forced them to navigate rough seas with nothing more than a rowboat and a prayer, and right now, he needs to respect that.

He leans forward, his elbows on his thighs and his eyes on his son. "Fine," he says. "Let's talk about Tess."

"Your kid," Miles corrects.

Tony nods. "Yeah."

"No, I mean . . . " Miles pauses just long enough to chew on his bottom lip. "Tess is your biological daughter. Your _real_ kid."

That single word, the _real_ that Miles throws all his weight against, hits Tony in the middle of his chest. He swallows around the sudden choked feeling in the back of his throat and tries, pretty desperately, to roll his eyes. "Didn't know you're fictional," he jokes.

Miles snorts. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. Not really." His kid huffs out a breath, clearly ready to argue, but Tony reaches out and defuses the teenage time bomb by touching his leg. "I don't know what this is like for you," he admits as Miles slowly glances over. "You barely had us for a year before we forced you to share with two surprise siblings. But no matter how many people drift in and out here, you're still the kid who turned your dad and me into parents. Not Ted and Amy, and definitely not Tess. _You_."

"Except I didn't." Miles's voice sounds tiny and distant—choked, almost—and despite his best efforts, Tony feels his heart splinter and break. His kid misses it to scrub a hand over his face, clearly trying to chase away emotions before they transform into tears. After he draws in a breath, though, he looks squarely at Tony. "Tess is almost eight or something, right?"

Tony shrugs. "Just turned seven, but that's close enough."

"And I'm two." He frowns, but before he questions the effectiveness of Miles's math teacher, his kid shakes his head. "Not, like, really," he clarifies, "but to you and dad, I've only been around for two years. I'm a baby, barely your kid at all. But Tess—" His voice cracks, definitely not from puberty, and he tips his head up to the ceiling. A ceiling that Tony slaved over as a gift when they all moved in together, a labor of love that barely even registers as he watches his son swallow. Miles loses a couple seconds to staring at the stars before murmuring, "The whole time, you were already somebody's dad. I didn't make you one. You just didn't know yet."

Tony studies his son for a long time after that, his heart threatening to choke him and his stomach twisting into a couple nauseating double-knots. But no matter how hard he tries to come up with some soothing reply, he just ends up sitting there, his hands dangling between his knees and the whole of his focus on Miles. The first child he ever loved as his own, he thinks, and he swears his whole body aches.

But despite the tension in the room—in the silence, in the space between them—Miles still lifts his head as Tony walks over to the bed, and when Tony hugs him, he nuzzles into Tony's t-shirt like a much younger child. They linger like that for what feels like hours, Tony rocking slightly as his son clings around his waist, both of them terrified to ever let the other go.

After a long time, Tony rubs Miles's back and says, "As far as I'm concerned, I'm not Tess's dad. I'm more like her sperm donor. A non-entity."

Even with his face buried in Tony's chest, Miles snorts. "That never lasts," he retorts, and hugs Tony a little tighter. 

 

==

 

That night, while they lie in bed and desperately pretend to sleep, Tony shifts just far enough to glance over at his husband. "He's not okay, is he? Miles, I mean."

It feels like a full decade of silence before Bruce finally sighs. "I think 'okay' might be a lot to ask right now," he admits. "From any of us."

Tony nods. "I figured," he admits, and looks back up at the ceiling. 

 

==

 

"You voted _me_ off the island?" Bucky questions, planting his hands on his criminally solid hips. "I'm a much better sounding board than Steve!"

Mystery meat street taco halfway to his mouth, Steve scowls. "Supportive."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Honey, you're great at about three hundred things—sex acts not included—but you're not always good at listening without judgment."

Tony snorts at the way Steve's ears flare bright red, but the guy ignores him to huff at his husband. "I don't judge," he defends, sounding mostly like his sulking first-grader.

"Not out loud, no. But your face, on the other hand . . . " Steve's brow crumples, and Bucky blinks at him. "C'mon. We've been together since the tenth grade. You've gotta know about the face."

"No, I don't. What face?" Bucky cringes and tosses a desperate glance at Tony, but he just shrugs and sips his seedy street-vendor coffee. Appropriately suspicious, Steve flicks his gaze from the two of them to Pepper and Natasha. They shrug in practiced unison, and he groans. "Great," he complains, "I have some kind of judgment face."

"It's not bad," Pepper says, but even Tony flinches at the uncertainty in her tone. "You just, uh, react."

"Noticeably," Natasha adds.

"In a way that clearly radiates 'silently judging you until the end of time,'" Tony chimes in, shrugging when Steve releases a pained little sound. "There are worse things in the universe."

"Yeah?" Steve challenges. "Name one."

Bucky shrugs. "Whatever secrets Tony's telling you at the friendship roundtable I'm not invited to." 

Natasha grins and knocks their shoulders together—some sort of weird Soviet stamp of approval, most likely—and Tony levels them both his best _I will kill you assholes where you stand_ glare as they all head back down the sidewalk together. All around them, college students and professionals alike dart between food carts in a desperate attempt to sample all their favorites before they close for the season. A noble goal, sure, if you ignore how a skateboarder with a falafel just bowled over a guy downing a brat.

"The last true blood sport," Bucky admires, and Steve rolls his eyes.

Business as usual, really.

They wander through the crowds in companionable silence, stopping occasionally to check out window displays or to peer suspiciously at the hipsters at the new smoothie bar. A couple different times, Tony considers just spilling the beans—that the "friendship roundtable" really involves his surprise daughter, that he feels helpless to comfort his family—but instead, he stamps down on the urge. 

For now, at least.

"Did you kill someone?" Natasha wonders as they crowd into the judicial complex elevator a good fifteen minutes later. Tony scowls at her, but she just waves a hand. "I don't mean on purpose," she clarifies. "Just accidentally. Like a hit and run."

Steve frowns. "Isn't that the plot of _Gone Girl_?"

"No, she fakes her death," Pepper replies instantly. Natasha rolls her eyes—leave it to a literal Russian to find all psychological thrillers mind-numbingly boring—but her girlfriend just tilts her head to one side. "I think there is a book like that, though. I just don't remember the name."

Bucky grins. "Was it by Lois Duncan?" he teases. "Or maybe Christopher Pike?"

Both she and Steve shoot him hilarious dirty looks as they step out of the elevator, and for the first time all day, Tony seriously considers laughing. Because temporary or not, life feels normal again, full of nothing but stupid jokes and harmless banter. He grins at the four of them, ready to share exactly how relieved he feels, when Clint Barton bursts out of the door to the district attorney's office like a man possessed.

"Did you see?" he demands, loud enough that his voice echoes in the hallway. Tony scowls and glances over at Natasha, who shrugs. "Not _her_ ," Clint stresses, "you."

"Me?" Steve asks, pointing to his chest.

"No, not—" He jabs a finger in Bucky's direction, his smile about as innocent as when Dot hatches one of her sleepover schemes, and Clint rolls his eyes at all of them. "Stark," he says. "I'm talking about Stark. 'Cause Bruce is still in court, but I figured—"

"You know you're about six steps ahead of us, right?" Tony interrupts, and for one terrifying second, he envisions everybody's favorite traffic prosecutor murdering him on the spot. But when Clint's momentary flash of anger fades, Tony notices something else in his expression. Something rougher and darker, almost like—

His stomach sinks.

As much Clint's mastered the art of the resting bitch face, right now, he looks worried.

Thanks to her powers of deduction and figurative sainthood, Pepper notices, too. She frowns and touches Clint's arm. "What's wrong?" she asks. "Is it a case, or—"

Right away, Clint shakes his head. "Not work. Well, unless that bitch and her character assassinations count as work, but I don't think so." Tony cocks his head at that, ready to ask for details (because in their line of work, _that bitch_ describes a whole bunch of people boasting a whole variety of genders), but Clint just pulls out his phone. The second he unlocks it, the Twitter feed for Trish Tilby's terrible _Suffolk County: Unmasked_ pops up on the screen, and Tony nearly hurts himself rolling his eyes.

Until, of course, Clint gestures to the most recent tweet.

_Tony Stark: philanthropic family man or philandering failed father? Find out about his illegitimate daughter on our blog!_

Immediately, Tony's heart drops into his stomach.

And behind him, ever the voice of reason, Bucky mutters, "Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news and bad news: the good news is that in less than two weeks, I am actually changing jobs to essentially be the Tony Stark of a prosecutor's office. I'm incredibly excited! In a lot of ways, it feels like the MPU's come full-circle. Plus, I'll be back to "living in my fanfiction" (as one friend phrased it).
> 
> The bad news, however, is that I need to slow down my posting schedule to every three weeks. I'll post a calendar on tumblr, but the truth is, my summer's kept me stupid-busy and I'm just not as far ahead as I'd like to be. Add that to starting a new job that will probably need some long hours at first, and I am afraid I will eat up my buffer. My hope is that I'll be able to go back to two-week gaps after a few chapters, but I really desperately appreciate your patience. Especially since I've _still_ not answered comments. (I'm the worst.)


	7. What's Next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony tries to recover from the shock that is Trish Tilby's idiotic blog post. But of course, some of her points (and the internet trolls who follow her) hit a little close to home. And speaking of home, it turns out that right now, his family needs a lot of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not familiar with [Egyptian rat screw](http://www.bicyclecards.com/how-to-play/egyptian-rat-screw/) and [rummy](http://www.bicyclecards.com/how-to-play/rummy-rum/), well, let's just say the former runs the risk of actual pain depending on your reflexes, and the latter occasionally ended in arguments during my youth. And no, I don't know why gin is banned, but I suspect the reason is similar to why the extended wordbutler family no longer plays Seafarers of Catan. (At least my sister is no longer subjecting me to the silent treatment?)
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who catch all my errors and, in Sara's case, suggest quality improvements to the chapter title.

"No, listen, I'm not interested in holding. What I need, right now, is for you to patch me through to Obie or at _least_ Hope Van Dyne, because otherwise—"

Cheery hold music (classical Spanish-style guitar with a touch of syncopation) breaks into Tony's rant, and for a second, he freezes. Stills right there in the middle of the conference room, his brain sort of shorting out as the musical equivalent of a Jack Russell puppy on crack cocaine bubbles up out of his cell phone. For one terrifying moment, Tony misses the good old days, when hanging up required slamming down a receiver hard enough that the plastic crackled.

Instead, he thumbs the red _end call_ button as hard as he's able and tosses his phone onto the table. It clatters twice before sliding all the way across and tumbling off the other side.

Natasha glances down at it, eyebrows raised. "Mature."

Tony flips her off before pacing to the far end of the room.

With the phone call abandoned and Tony's ten-second hissy fit well and truly finished, the conference room falls back into abject silence. And not the comfortable silence of their usual staff meetings, either; the longer Tony paces the room, the more he imagines literally slicing through the tension with a disposable plastic knife. Still, nobody says a word, a testament to the unnatural patience of trial attorneys.

At least, of course, until Bruce glances up from his own cell phone. "How?" he asks.

Tony shakes his head. "I don't know." Bruce nods a little, his attention dipping back down to the cracked screen of his Blackberry (and, presumably, that unbelievable farce of a blog post), and all at once, Tony's last few nerves fray and snap. "I was with you," he defends, throwing up his hands as Bruce purses his lips. "From the second Maya told me about the kid until this morning, I never left your sight except to pee. And trust me, I definitely didn't text Trish Tilby from the can." Steve snorts from his spot at the table, but Tony ignores him. "I don't know where this insanity originated," he stresses, "but it didn't come from me. Or you, or our kids, meaning—"

"Wait," Pepper says, finally raising her head. "Are you saying that the post is true?"

Tony waits for her gaze to flick between them a couple times before he glances over at Bruce.

Bruce, his face still a little too pale for comfort, stares down at his hands.

And all the way over at the head of the table, Clint says, "Holy shit."

While Natasha flings the nearest projectile (a mostly empty tissue box with foxes on the side) in Clint's general direction, Steve blinks. "Amy wasn't just making up the secret sister?" he asks. He sounds strangled, like a Warner Brothers character on helium.

"And you didn't tell us?" Bucky chimes in. Tony flinches at the undeniable hurt in his tone—a flinch he deserves to suffer through, for obvious reasons. And the sinking guilt in his gut doubles down when Bucky adds, "Wait, is that why you're calling the friendship roundtable?"

Clint abruptly stops rubbing the red spot on his forehead. "What's a friendship roundtable?" he asks, and he scowls when Natasha sighs at him. "Are you guys hanging out without me? I'm kind of a ranking friend, here."

"How long did you plan to sit on this?" Natasha questions, and to her credit, she sounds suspicious rather than offended. "Because—"

"Can we stop it with the fucking Spanish Inquisition?" Tony snaps, and in a rare show of deference, Natasha immediately shuts her mouth. In fact, every single person in the room shuts right up, transforming from mostly mature adults into embarrassed, chastened children. Steve glances at his hands, Clint returns to rubbing his box-burn, Bucky picks at his phone case, and Pepper—

Pepper averts her eyes, her lips rolling into a tight line.

And in that moment, Tony recognizes his place as the worst person in recorded history.

He flops back against the wall and rubs a hand over his face, but the second he closes his eyes, he sees that terrible headline again, the words _failed father_ burning into his retinas. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a sorry attempt to clear his vision, and when he finally feels ready to face the room again, his gaze lands squarely on Bruce. Thanks to Judge Smithe's terrible scheduling and Trish Tilby's equally terrible timing, his husband's still dressed for court, complete with his crooked tie and slightly worn suit jacket. But in this room, surrounded by these people, the mask of Assistant District Attorney Doctor Banner fades away, leaving behind an exhausted, slightly shaken Bruce.

A man who deserves about twice as many apologies as their friends, Tony thinks.

Bruce sighs and locks his Blackberry. "Tony's ex-girlfriend just moved back into town," he says, "and she thinks that Tony's the father of her seven-year-old daughter." He looks back over his shoulder for a moment, his eyes searching Tony's face without ever really settling. After a second or two, he turns back to the group. "We don't have any confirmation," he adds. "She hasn't opened a paternity suit, and we haven't talked to her about testing. But we don't necessarily disbelieve her, either." 

The silence that settles over the room this time feels inevitable, like all of Tony's worst chickens finally came home to roost. But the more he tries to drum up an explanation, the more his mouth reminds him of an actual desert, and the tighter his chest feels. Instead, he watches each of his friends in turn, studying Clint as flicks back through the article he probably knows by heart and Bucky as he drums his fingers on the table.

He watches, and worse, he waits.

Eventually, Steve raises his head. "So, you're saying that the blog post—"

"Probably isn't a lie," Tony confirms, and his friend nods. "Knowing Tilby, it's probably full of reckless disregard for the actual truth—"

Natasha snorts. "We're not in torts class," she points out.

"Good, because I sucked at torts. Still can't figure out negligence per se." She rolls her eyes, almost blessing him with a smile, and he breathes just a little easier. "Point is, I haven't read enough to know the details. I'm not sure I _want_ to, since I'm pretty sure 'failed father' might actually haunt me for the rest of my life. But it, uh—" The words falter for a hot second, and he swallows. "It looks like I have a daughter. Tess."

He expects to feel lighter, somehow, like telling this cluster of people he loves might help lift the burden of the last forty-eight hours, but instead, his stomach sinks. Because instead of cheering them on, his friends all glance away from him and at one another. Within seconds, they're all engaged in some creepy silent conversations, all raised eyebrows and tiny head-tilts. 

Bruce, clearly confused by their friends' sudden descent into street performance, frowns.

Tony at least waits until Clint gestures at his phone for the third time to ask, "Can I have a clue? Number of words, maybe? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

Natasha and Bucky roll their eyes like old friends, but Pepper—loyal, unflappable Pepper, a woman unbothered by a bad joke about charades—just picks up her phone. "She calls Tess 'the Stark daughter,'" she says, and Tony knows without looking that she's referring to the blog post. "A couple paragraphs later, she writes, 'The girl is the one true heir to the Stark legacy, the third generation of genius.'"

Even from his spot a couple feet away, Tony catches how Bruce's shoulders bunch under his suit jacket, and immediately, an uneasy feeling prickles in the pit of his stomach. "So Tilby's still a sensationalist hack with the subtlety of a freight train," he says, shrugging. "I don't see—"

"You have other kids, Tony," Steve points out, simultaneously picking up where Pepper left off and stealing the breath right out of Tony's chest. "There's no way they won't read this, and when they do—"

"They'll know she's full of shit." Steve rolls his lips together, his expression still just the wrong side of uncertain, but Tony shakes his head. "Even if they find this—and they probably won't, they're not particularly excited by shitty local journalism—they'll know that they're the heirs to my legacy or whatever. Not some mystery kid they've only just met."

Pepper nods slightly, but Clint—the sharpest-dressed devil's advocate since that Keanu Reeves movie—just cocks an eyebrow. "And if they don't?" he needles.

"They will," Tony replies, and he works hard to ignore how Bruce keeps staring at his hands.

 

==

 

"What the _fuck_?"

Tony's not sure which shock hits him first, his son's voice or his completely unacceptable language, but either way, he almost falls out of his desk chair as Miles slams into his office. No, on second thought, _slams_ is about ten times too mild a description. Instead, Miles bursts into his office, erupting like a teenage volcano, and when he plants his hands on Tony's desk, he knocks over the pencil cup.

Pens sort of scatter all over the place, one even rolling into Tony's lap, but he just gapes at his kid. "Miles, I don't even know—"

"You tell me Sunday afternoon, and the next day, the whole world finds out?" Miles demands, digging into his back pocket. Crumpled or not, the computer printout that he flings onto Tony's desk clearly boasts the _Suffolk County: Unmasked_ banner across the top, and Tony's mouth dries out. His kid, on the other hand, just gestures at the paper. "She's all over the news!" he announces, his tone slightly hysterical. "First on this _stupid_ blog, but Ganke and Judge saw it on the website for the actual newspaper—"

Tony's heart drops into his stomach like a ten-ton boulder. "The paper?" he echoes.

"—and Lana found a video about it being on TV!" Miles throws up his hands. "Why is your secret kid going to be on TV if you only found out about her—"

"Hey, slow down," Tony breaks in, and only partially because Coulson's staring at them from the middle of the hallway. He kicks the door shut as he steps around the desk, and when he touches his son's arms, his whole body shudders. "Let's start with how I don't know anything about that article. Okay? Total surprise to me and your dad. Promise."

Miles swallows audibly. "But—" 

"But nothing. Trish Tilby prides herself on dragging good people through the mud. Remember how she tried to ruin Fury last year?" His kid frowns a little, looking confused, and he sighs. "Nick?" he tries, but Miles shakes his head. "Beth's dad?"

Miles almost grins. "Your boss with the eyepatch," he provides.

"I can't take you anywhere," Tony grumbles, but he appreciates his kid's amused little snort. He rubs his hands down Miles's arms, barely resisting the urge to hug him. "Tilby drummed this shit up out of the blue," he soothes, "but not from us. And the second her cable access overlords return my phone calls, I'll be shutting down her operation until we're _all_ ready to deal with this."

Miles nods, his eyes searching Tony's face. "But it's real, right?" he asks.

"What part?"

"The whole thing. About how you hooked up with Maya and . . . " 

He trails off, his gaze dropping to his shoes, and Tony's heart suddenly aches ten times worse than back when it exploded on him. It rides around on the nauseous feeling that lives in his stomach, choking him as he watches his son chew on his lower lip. He draws in a breath. "You're wondering how I loved somebody and left them?" he asks.

"Not that you _loved_ her, just—" Miles cuts himself off with a little shake of his head, but he still waits for what feels like another lifetime before he looks back up at his father. They study each other for a couple seconds, Miles with his lips pursed and Tony feeling about ready to throw up on their shoes. Eventually, though, his kid says, "You're not like that."

Tony frowns. "Like—"

"Like a person who leaves." The words waver slightly, and the sudden wet in Miles's eyes steals Tony's breath away. "I know people who leave," he presses, his voice sounding choked. "Even when they come back, it's always there. Between you. But you've never acted like that, not even the couple times when things really _sucked_ , and to read about it in that stupid—"

He gestures roughly to the printout on Tony's desk, his hand shaking, and Tony stops resisting his need to hug this heart-broken kid. "C'mere," he says, and Miles falls into him just like the night before, his arms around his waist and his face in his dress shirt. Tony wraps him up tight, kissing his temple as the door inches open. Even the barest glimpse of Bruce's face in that moment feels like a lifeline, and he waves his husband in as he rocks his teenager like a toddler.

"The guy who married your dad isn't somebody who leaves," he promises, "but the guy Maya knew? He was. He was a mess, afraid of commitment and responsibility and definitely his own shadow. And in the end, it took heart disease and a major depressive episode—"

"And pills?" Miles croaks, and Tony almost stumbles as he backs up enough to blink at him. For his part, Miles wipes his face with his hand. "You took a lot of pills, didn't you? Like, addiction-level pills. Before you ended up at Four Oaks."

"I—" Tony squeaks. He glances over at where Bruce hovers just inside the door, but the other guy shrugs at him. "The pills didn't help, no. And when I mixed them with a lot of booze and not a lot of sleep, I fell apart." Miles nods, his gaze slipping back to the floor, and Tony squeezes his arm. "Hey," he says firmly, "those days are over. A distant memory. So distant that I sometimes forget what all went down. Like that Tony's a different person than the one who wrangles the three of you. Okay?"

"Four," Miles murmurs.

Tony swallows around the stabbing pain in the middle of his chest. "Right now, I'm only wrangling three kids," he says weakly, but his son snorts at him even as he demands another hug.

They linger like that for a while, each of them clinging to the other like the world's about to crumble, before Tony finally kisses the kid's temple. "At some point, I'm gonna want to know what member of the teenage wasteland drove you out here," he says. Bruce cocks an eyebrow, his mouth dangerously close to a smile, and Tony shrugs. "What? My disgruntled fourteen-year-old shows up out of the blue way before the end of his after school activities, I'm gonna ask about it. Especially if he kicks off our cuddle session by swearing at me. I mean, I cribbed that rule straight from the parenting manual."

"Or found it on a bathroom stall somewhere," Miles grumbles, and he rolls his eyes at Tony's (completely overdramatic) scowl. But more than that, he shifts from foot to foot, his face suddenly guilty. "I, uh, have this deal with Kate that if I need a ride, she'll pick me up. And usually she pries, but today . . . " He rubs the side of his neck as he glances between his parents. "I think she saw the article, too."

Bruce nods. "Probably."

"And since I didn't really want to stay at school . . . " 

Miles shakes his head, his voice sticking again, and Tony rubs a hand down his arm. "Well, hey," he encourages, trying hard to sound upbeat, "you're here now. Ready to raid Pepper's chocolate stash and check out the new file clerk. Not, of course, that I approve of you dating a college girl, but—"

"Actually, is Rhodey busy?" Miles wonders, and he sounds close so desperately embarrassed to ask that Tony stamps down hard on his surprise. He studies his kid for a moment, just trying to read his expression, but the teen shrugs. "I like hanging out with him," he admits, "but after his big vacation with Carol, we never—"

Tony raises his hands. "Uncle Rhodey Bonding Time—which is trademarked, by the way—requires no explanation," he promises. Miles snorts and rolls his eyes, but Tony spots the relief that hides under his age-appropriate disdain. "In fact, grab ten bucks from your dad on your way out. Buy yourself something nice from the cafeteria, and one of us will swing by to grab you when we leave to collect your sister."

Bruce frowns. "You're volunteering my money?"

"Actually, I'm volunteering _our_ money, but for the record, I think the distinction's adorable." His husband wrinkles his nose, but his laugh lines crinkle. Tony grins. "Besides, I don't believe in carrying cash. Too liquid."

"And too easy to spend on the Sour Patch Kids in the vending machine," Bruce reminds him, shaking his head. But he still hugs Miles the second he reaches out for his dad, still murmurs reassurances to him while both their shoulders relax. They sway together, father and son, and the longer Tony watches them, the more he remembers why he loves being a dad.

Well, and the thousand other reasons.

When Miles slips out of the office a few minutes later, his hands buried in his pockets, Tony discovers that he's still staring at Bruce. He loses several long moments to studying every inch of him—his worry lines, his slouched shoulders, his stubble. He tries to commit Bruce's expression to memory, to catalogue it while also reading between the lines.

In the end, though, he sighs. "If I knew how far the story'd gone—"

"You would have stopped it?" Bruce asks, and he shakes his head when Tony frowns. "You can't control Trish Tilby. At this point, I'm not sure anyone can. And since we never really planned for this particular crisis—"

"I'm not claiming responsibility," Tony interrupts, raising his hands. Bruce tilts his head to the side, eyebrows raised, and Tony wrinkles his nose. "Fine," he admits, "I'm claiming responsibility for part of this. For the overarching situation that led us to gossiping friends and a livid teenager. But in terms of everything else, I . . . " His voice falters slightly, thanks presumably to Bruce's unwavering eye contact, and he sighs as he drops his arms to his sides. "No matter how we cut it, I caused this. Every trickle-down effect, from here until death does us part, is on me."

Bruce rolls his lips together. "Took two of you to have a baby, Tony."

"And only one of us fucked it up and brought his fame with him," Tony points out, and heads back to his desk.

 

==

 

"I don't want to talk to you, Tony."

"Me?" Tony retorts, gesturing to his chest. "Lady, I don't know what kind of weird alternate universe you just arrived from, but last time I checked—"

Maya rolls her eyes, her expression hovering somewhere between aggressively agitated and just plain aggressive, but Tony sticks his foot in the way when she tries to slam the door on him. At the end of the hallway, a lady with a fluffy beige dog scowls at them. Probably ready to call the cops about her new neighbor's domestic violence incident, Tony thinks, and he plasters on a smile. 

"Heated political debate," he calls out to the woman, ignoring Maya's derisive snort. "She lived in England too long. Believes in a parliamentary system, which maybe works for other countries, but in terms of our political structure—"

Groaning, Maya wrenches the door open hard enough that Tony almost loses his balance. "Get in here before you get me evicted," she commands, and he waves briefly at the neighbor before slipping inside.

Just like the rest of the building, Maya's apartment strikes a balance between worn and warm, with battered old furniture and built-in shelves that only just tolerate the weight of all her books. With the drapes thrown back, long fingers of yellow-orange light stretch across the living room and highlight all the little touches of home that Tony still remembers from a decade ago: a stone turtle from a childhood vacation, photographs of long-dead grandparents, a well-loved throw blanket. Only this time around, a school picture and some finger paint artwork balance on the mantle, and a discarded doll slumps on an armchair. The telltale signs of parenthood, Tony thinks, and something in his stomach twists.

"Well?" Maya asks.

Tony jerks out of his thoughts (out of his own world, really) and twists to blink at her. "You're pissed at me?" he asks, a little baffled. She rolls her eyes. "Listen, we can discuss all the myriad ways I screwed up the last seven years, but when it comes to today—"

"Wait, you really think I'm the one behind the article?" For the first time since Tony'd arrived at her door—unannounced, exhausted, and still shaken from Trish Tilby's idiotic blog post—Maya sounds more hurt than angry. They spend a long time staring at each other from either end of her entry way before Maya's shoulders soften. She rolls her lips together and glances out across the apartment. "I wouldn't drag your name through the mud."

"Why not? I deserve it." She snaps her head up at that, frowning, and Tony waves a hand. "Long day," he says. "Our friends found the article, Miles showed up at the office with a lot of anger and even more fear, I tried to work late but couldn't focus . . . " He shakes his head. "I thought I could maybe, I don't know, mitigate the damage by coming over here and talking to you."

"You mean by coming over here and accusing me of being your leak," she replies. He flinches a little at that, ready to object, but Maya just shrugs. "I wrote three e-mails this afternoon. Accused you of being a monster who can't keep his mouth shut." She pauses and almost smiles. "Not that I meant it."

"Except I'm pretty sure you just figured out what Bruce's putting on my headstone," Tony retorts, and she snorts even as she rolls her eyes. When he leans back against the wall, his shoulder brushes a yellow jacket hanging on a hook. He studies it for a few seconds before saying, "I think Amy has the same jacket. Back-to-school sale. Fabric inside's covered in butterflies."

"And flowers," Maya replies, her smile fond but still a little distant. "Tess likes to pick out things with plant designs. I think it's how she apologizes for hating all my favorite colors." Tony grins, almost laughing, but she just rolls her lips together. "Why are you here, Tony?"

He frowns. "Uh, pretty sure we just established all that."

"No, we established that you wanted to find out if I talked to Trish Tilby, but you could've done that over the phone." The certainty in her voice coils in the pit of his stomach like a viper, and he rolls his lips together. Glances at the floor, too, which means he misses her face when she sighs. "You picked the worst place in the world to hide, you know."

"I'm not _hiding_ , I just—" She cocks her head at him when he raises his eyes, her expression insufferably all-knowing, and all the fight drains out of him. He scratches fingers through his hair, his body slumping a little. Like the last two days finally settled into his bones, he thinks, and tips his head back against the wall. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits. "I thought I did, you know? I'd talk to Bruce, talk to you, work out a plan of attack with my level-headed friends and their creepily intuitive significant others. But that article popped up, and now . . . "

He trails off with a shrug, that old, familiar helplessness creeping into his chest and settling in for the night. He'd fought against that feeling all afternoon, diving into his work with a single-minded devotion, but his focus'd kept failing. Instead of writing pithy responses to terrible arguments, he'd read and reread Tilby's post, committing it to memory before scrolling down to the comments section. And after _that_ had demoralized him to the point of nausea, he'd opened up Google and found all the articles and tweets that'd popped up after Tilby's.

Generally speaking, the internet considered him a letch and an asshole.

Right now, he mostly agrees with them.

"I used to pop up in the society pages all the time," he says after a couple long moments, his eyes still trained on the ceiling. "Howard Stark's idiot kid, drunk at one event or high at another. And after Dad died and I decided to stop trailing after his ghost like a lost puppy, I stayed on everybody's radar. A distant blip, sure, but still worth a paragraph at the bottom of the page."

Maya raises her eyebrows. "And?" she prompts.

"And I—" He starts, but the words stick in the back of his throat. He shakes his head, a helpless attempt to clear the cobwebs, but nothing changes; when he thumps his head back against the wall, he's still standing in Maya's foyer, victim to her unwavering gaze. "Back when I stopped being that guy, I missed him," he admitted. "Thought I'd lost my edge or something. And now, just as I'm getting used to everybody telling me how I've 'matured—'"

"You're Howard Stark's idiot kid again." He nods, his jaw clenching as he swallows, and Maya smiles. "For what it's worth," she says gently, "I don't think you're that guy. Even now. And if Trish Tilby ever calls me, I'll tell her that." She reaches over to squeeze his hand. "In the meantime, I'm guessing your family misses you. And since I've probably caused enough trouble with them to last a lifetime . . . "

She trails off, her tone just the tiniest bit wicked, and Tony almost laughs.

At least, until Tess hollers, "Mum, I need help with my homework!"

Her voice echoes through the apartment, urgent but somehow still familiar, and Tony's heart clenches until it almost hurts. Maya drops his hand like he's scalded her, and she steps into the living room to call out, "Be there in a minute, honey!" 

For the first time in a long time, the distance between them feels a lot like a bottomless pit.

They study each other for a few seconds before Tony says, "I still need to meet her, you know."

Maya rolls her lips together. "Call me after you finish your battle plan," she replies, and Tony can't decide whether it sounds like a promise. 

 

==

 

"What happens next?"

Amy asks the question in a whisper, like a secret she's afraid to share, and Tony stops drying her hair to sit back on his legs. Upstairs, the house feels quiet and peaceful, a sanctuary reserved for just the two of them. Well, if sanctuaries include rubber ducks and coconut-scented body wash, Tony thinks, and almost smiles.

At least, until his daughter's serious face peeks out from under her teal bath towel.

They stare at each other for a long time, frozen in place by the weight of the question, until Tony finally slides the towel down to her shoulders. Between that and her too-big bathrobe (a birthday present from her favorite uncles), she looks like a pint-sized prize fighter, ready to duck into the ring.

Well, you know, if prize fighters chew on their cuticles when they're nervous.

He nudges her hand away from her face as he reaches for the comb. "I'm guessing you're not trying to talk me out of detangling your hair," he says, his voice a little flatter than normal.

Amy wrinkles her nose. "No."

"You're asking about Tess, right?"

She hesitates, her lips pursing into a worried little line, but after what feels like a lifetime, she nods. Tony nods back at her, his brain reeling for a decent explanation while his stomach ties itself into a hundred tiny knots. He's still struggling for some sort of answer—or hell, even the _start_ to an answer—when Amy sighs. "She wouldn't talk to me at school," she murmurs, her toes curling in the fluffy bath mat. "She wanted to, but her mom said we needed to take a break and not be friends for a little while. But I don't have a lot of friends, and since I only see Dot at lunch—"

"Hey, no, none of that," Tony urges, but Amy still sniffles helplessly as he cups her cheek in his hand. The damp in her eyes threatens to break his heart in at least sixteen different pieces, and when her lower lip quivers, he almost forgets how to breathe. "C'mere, sweetheart," he says, and by the time he plants his ass on the cold bathroom tile, she's practically melted into his lap.

Like the toddler Amy he never knew, he thinks, and buries his nose in her hair.

She cuddles in against his t-shirt, her face hidden even as he rocks her gently. Her breathing evens out slowly, the promise of tears finally subsiding, and he kisses her hairline before saying, "I talked to Tess's mom for a little while today. We were, uh, working through some things. And I hope that, pretty soon, we'll be able to work out a plan."

Amy tips her head up to peer at him. "And Tess and I can still be friends?" she asks.

He smiles. "Friends? You'll be family, mostly." She nods jerkily, her expression still a little uncertain, and he rubs her back through her terry-cloth eyesore. "I know we dropped a bomb on you and your brothers," he admits after another few seconds. "You're allowed to be upset, especially at me. But don't blame Tess or your dad for what's happening around here, okay? We're all just trying to, I don't know, work this out."

"Like when Miss Hill makes me take those reading tests." He blinks at her, almost frowning, and her mouth tips into a glorious little grin. "Miss Hill gives us tests to see if our reading's getting better," she explains. "And every time, we get mad, because they're hard and take a really long time. But you know what Miss Hill always tells us?"

Tony shrugs. "That excessive standardized testing builds character?" he wonders.

Amy shakes her head. "No. She says we need to hate the game and not the player." He rolls his eyes, and she scowls at him. "Is that a bad thing? Because she said it means getting mad at the tests and not her, but—" 

"Definitely not a bad thing," Tony promises, raising a hand when his kid squints at him. "I just heard your teacher's voice in my head, and now, I'm scarred for life."

Amy grins. "She says that if you can hear her when she's not there, she's won and you need to 'admit defeat.'"

Tony snorts. "I'm honestly surprised that's not your classroom motto."

He combs out her hair to a running soundtrack of other school stories—about Miss Hill, about math, about Lester the Chinchilla who lives in the art room—and by the time Amy's shimmying into her pajamas, Tony feels settled again. Like he's extinguished another raging forest fire, he thinks, and he flicks on her nightlight. Except the butterflies that cover her ceiling immediately remind him of the yellow jacket with the butterfly lining, and his heart climbs into his throat as he waits for his daughter to climb into bed.

Well, one of them, at least.

"I always wanted a sister," Amy says suddenly, and Tony snaps out of his thoughts just as she flops down onto her pillow. Her hair fans out everywhere, a halo of dark curls that he immediately runs his fingers through. "When we moved in with you and Bruce, before I went to church with Dot, I said prayers about Dot being my sister. Since you were already her fairy godfather and everything."

Tony smiles and sits down on the edge of her bed. "And now— What? Lutherans don't pray for sisters, only brothers?"

She giggles. "And now, I think I never got a sister because I already had one." She pauses, her lips rolling together. "Well, almost."

He raises his eyebrows. "Almost?"

She shrugs. "I'm not adopted yet, remember? Until we go to court, you're not really my dad."

Despite the technical accuracy of her statement—because, yeah, without a signed order from cranky Judge Rees, they're basically just age-inappropriate roommates—Tony's stomach still sinks like a stone. He loses a couple seconds to stroking her hair before he says, "As far as I'm concerned, you're already my little girl. Your dad's just lucky that I'm willing to share."

He tickles the top of her head lightly, and Amy grins as she bats his hand away. "He'd fight you for me."

"Yeah, and I'd totally win," Tony replies, and bends down to kiss her goodnight.

He's halfway down the stairs before he hears the boys, their laughter as loud and comforting as the carillon on the city hall building. "You snooze, you lose," Teddy says as Tony walks into the living room, his hands almost overflowing with playing cards. "If you're not happy about it, we can switch to gin."

Tucked into his favorite armchair, Bruce shakes his head. "Gin's still banned," he says, his attention mostly captured by a family law journal. "Try again."

The boys glance at each other, and Miles shrugs. "Uno?" he suggests.

"Uno always ends in a bloodbath," Tony reminds them. He plops down at the end of the coffee table, his back almost brushing Bruce's legs. "What are we playing tonight?"

"Egyptian rat screw," Teddy replies, straightening his cards. "Miles's losing by a landslide."

"Because he has superhuman reflexes!" Miles defends, gesturing across the table. His brother smiles, his perfectly smug expression clearly a side effect of hanging out with Kate and America, and Tony bites back a snort as he steals Bruce's tea. "Please tell me you're going to slap in and save me, Dad."

He blinks, mug all of three inches from his mouth. "You want me to?" he asks.

Teddy shrugs. "You can try if you want," he replies, "but I'm pretty sure we all know how this'll turn out."

"Challenge unequivocally accepted," Tony informs them, and hands back the tea unmolested.

They fall pretty quickly into the rhythm of the card game, Tony slapping in on a pair of sixes and proceeding to steal a handful of cards from both of his sons within the first two or three minutes. As much as Teddy's reflexes threaten to destroy them, Miles is a born card counter, and they slowly whittle down the older teen's deck to a handful of number cards. Somewhere along the way, Bruce stops reading to stroke his fingers through Tony's hair—a terrible distraction, sure, but a soothing balm on the last couple days of insanity.

When Teddy runs out of cards (and, more notably, swears under his breath about it), Tony sweeps up the whole deck. "Let's deal your dad into a game of rummy before he falls asleep into his _Family Law Quarterly_."

"I'm not—" Bruce argues, but his body betrays him with a jaw-cracking yawn. The boys grin like a pair of particularly devious trolls, and Bruce frowns at all three of them. "I had hearings all day," he defends as he slides out of the chair. "And it's the _Child Welfare Journal_ , not _Family Law Quarterly_."

"Well, that's totally different," Miles intones, and he smirks when Bruce sighs at him.

For a good ten minutes, they play in relative silence, Bruce's shoulder brushing Tony's every time he reaches for the draw pile. And sure, Miles grumbles about a series of unhelpful discards while Teddy hums to himself, but the whole scene feels blessedly normal. Transform them into a painting, and they'd look like the product of a modern-day Norman Rockwell: _Fathers & Sons, oil on canvas, 2014_.

But just as Tony plays a couple cards on one of Teddy's runs, Miles asks, "Are Maya and Tess going to come over and hang with us again?"

He keeps his tone totally casual, a trick he's probably learned from Clint (or, worse, Sam Wilson), but Tony knows from the way he glances across the table that he's practically vibrating with anxiety. Teddy pauses, his hand halfway to his soda, and raises his eyebrows; and next to Tony, their knees touching under the table, Bruce freezes like a deer in headlights.

As for Tony, well, his stomach curdles. Still, he swallows and forces himself to discard before responding, "Do you want them to?"

Miles rolls his eyes. "Answering a question with a question's cheating," he complains, and Bruce chuckles quietly as he draws his next card. "And I don't know if I _want_ them to, but if they're part of all this . . . "

He gestures vaguely to the living room—the cards on the table, the halfway dismantled doll house in Amy's favorite corner, the dogs asleep in front of the fireplace—but never quite finishes his thought. Bruce discards a seemingly random jack, and Teddy plays with the tab on his soda before helping himself to that card. Something heavy settles over them, and for once, Tony's not sure how to break through the crust.

Finally, though, Miles sighs. "Rhodey's dad died when he was in high school," he says as Teddy finishes up his turn. "He said that when his mom decided to marry somebody else, he was mad. He thought their family was fine, that it disrespected his dad— You know, all the usual stuff." Tony nods, remembering Rhodey's occasional bursts of freshman-year anger (and not just because his frustration sometimes included a lot of cheap beer); Bruce, new to the story, rolls his lips together. "But Rhodey told me that after long enough, he figured out that he was being unfair to his mom. And I know our situation's different, but I don't want to be unfair, either. Especially since Tess didn't do anything to me. You know?"

Tony nods again, still sort of dumbly staring at his kid, and Miles shrugs as he helps himself a card. But instead of saying anything else (or, Tony thinks, shuddering apart like in his office), he just returns to the game like normal. Tony flicks his eyes over to Bruce, who shakes his head slightly but otherwise stays quiet.

Teddy, constant as the tide, leans back on his elbows and waits for his brother to finish his turn.

"What about you?" Tony asks him, and the older teen blinks a little as he glances over. "You've been suspiciously quiet about this whole situation. No harassing me about how I sowed my wild oats, no questions about Trish Tilby's article—"

"Yeah, because Tilby's a hack," Teddy breaks in, rolling his eyes. "Besides, I don't know what you want me to say. I'm just along for the ride, remember?" Tony blinks for a second, bone-deep surprised by his answer, and he knows just how worried his expression is by the way Teddy waves his hand. "Not like that," he promises. "I just mean that I don't really have a dog in this fight. At least, not the way Miles and Amy do."

Tony frowns, not totally sure about the right response. Next to him, though, Bruce smiles gently. "You're still part of this family."

"I know. And I'm really glad to be here. I guess it's just . . . " Teddy pauses, his brow wrinkling as he struggles for the right words. Like when he practices a presentation for English class, Tony thinks, and almost smiles. At least, until his kid shakes his head. "I've been in the system long enough that I'm used to things changing at the drop of a hat. That's all."

"Meaning that he's sick of being stuck with us," Miles interprets, and he laughs when Teddy tries to kick him under the table. 

The boys retreat pretty quickly after, Miles bragging about his victory while his brother grumbles and play-shoves him toward the stairs. Better still, the dogs trail their very favorite boy up to his bedroom, leaving Bruce and Tony gloriously alone. Or at least, alone enough that Tony feels absolutely at peace when he drags his husband close enough to bury his face in his messy, graying hair.

Bruce sighs and settles against him, and they linger that way for a long time, their backs against the front of the armchair and their arms around one another. Gathering strength after a couple terrible days, Tony thinks, and bracing for the next mountain that stands in their way.

It's only as Tony's eyelids start to droop that Bruce asks, "Did you finish that brief?"

Tony's heart immediately drops into his stomach. "What brief?"

"The one that you stayed late after work to finish. Something about a criminal history score?"

Bruce snakes his fingers under Tony's t-shirt as he asks, his fingertips sending a shiver straight up Tony's spine even as Tony's mouth dries out. Because despite the quiet peace of their living room (and, more importantly, of Bruce's touch), Tony can still clearly imagine the mess of research and paperwork spread across his desk, the last vestiges of a project he'd abandoned to rush out and talk to Maya.

He rests his cheek against the top of Bruce's head and sighs. "Not quite," he admits, and draws his husband closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I update the MPU posting schedule yet? No. Because I'm terrible and still adjusting to my new job. Soon, I hope.


	8. A Big Family Life Like Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony talks to everyone that matters: Obie, his friends, his children, and Tesla Adelaide Hansen. And if those conversations leave him with restored faith in the universe, well, good for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost **thank you for your patience in waiting an extra day**. For those of you who don't follow me on tumblr, I had a big court argument yesterday and a birthday party after work, which just ate up all my time to post. By the time I got home last night, I pretty much just fell into bed. Thank you for being awesome.
> 
> Not this weekend but next, I hope to be announcing a little tumblr side project that I'm going to be doing. More information as it becomes available. You can blame saranoh for it.
> 
> Speaking of saranoh, thanks to her and Jen for being amazing beta-readers who are also appropriately wary of certain characters. You'll guess which ones, I'm sure.
> 
> And for the record, I picture Obie's car being [some variation on a 911 Turbo](http://www.porsche.com/usa/models/911/911-turbo/).

Friday night, Tony almost rear-ends the Porsche in his driveway.

He's not _trying_ to rear-end anything, just rescue his cell phone from the foot well before he turns into the garage and possibly loses the damn thing forever, meaning he misses the Porsche until he almost kisses the bumper. He slams on the brakes hard enough that he feels it in his teeth, and that's where he ends up parking for at least the foreseeable future: ten feet from the front door and ten inches from a sleek black Porsche.

A Porsche he recognizes, he realizes belatedly, and his heart joins his phone on the floor mat.

He stares at the car for a long time, a five-hundred horsepower harbinger of doom with a truly terrible custom paint job. Worse, he even considers fleeing like a wounded antelope on the Serengeti. He imagines the whole scenario, start to finish: backing out of the driveway, hunkering down in the Applebee's just outside of their subdivision, banging out a brief over terrible appetizers. A totally average Friday night, really, aside from the whole _missing his family to act like a coward_ part.

He draws in a breath and climbs out of the Audi.

The dogs greet him as he slips in through the front door, their tails whipping the walls and nearly rendering Tony a soprano, but nobody else thunders down the stairs to join them. Another sign of the apocalypse, he thinks as he offloads his bag, keys, and wallet. And, come to think of it, his suit coat, which he disposes by walking into the office and slinging it over the back of his chair. He adds his tie for good measure.

"I'm being an idiot," he mutters to the bookshelves and other associated clutter.

Predictably, they don't answer him.

Nobody notices when he walks into the living room a full minute later—not, of course, that he blames them. Because, for one, their whole open plan smells like Tony's favorite pepperoni pizza (the first and most pressing distraction), and second, Obadiah Stane's sitting on a stool at the kitchen island.

"Like I said before," he continues, clearly halfway through a story, "I'm not sure what I expected when the doorbell rang. But I promise you, Tony in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts definitely never entered my mind."

Tony snorts and rolls his eyes—the "half-naked after some light college hazing" bit barely registers as a lousy memory, anymore—but all three of his kids burst out laughing. They grin at Obie like the guy hung the moon, and he raises his glass in a little toast before slugging the last of his drink. Leaning against the counter, Bruce smiles, and the easy slope of his shoulders chases away some of Tony's anxiety.

For the first time in the last week, the rest of the Banner-Stark family looks exactly the way Tony imagines them: warm, inviting, full of life and light.

And treating Obie like he belongs, whispers a tiny voice in the back of Tony's head.

Tony curb-stomps it a few times before he finally crosses into the kitchen.

"And here, I thought the Porsche in my driveway might've been an early birthday present," he jokes, plastering on his breeziest smile as he sidles up to his husband. Except showing that many teeth hurts his cheeks, never mind his jaw, and the second Bruce cocks an eyebrow in his usual omniscient way, Tony knows the gig's up. Still, he holds onto the smile as he shakes his head, only dropping the act to kiss Bruce's temple. "Also, while we're not on the subject: should I be offended that you started the pizza party without me? Because I'm pretty sure that I'm deeply hurt."

From his spot on one of the other stools, Miles rolls his eyes. "You stayed late at work."

"To help a man named after low-lying misty clouds with a complicated appellate procedure question, yes. Still no reason to cut me out of the festivities." The kid huffs and ducks out of Tony's attempt to rub his hand over the top of his head, but Amy soothes the wound by winding her arms around Tony's waist. Clinging to him, really, which definitely impedes his ability to exchange a polite nod with Teddy. He waits for the kid to nod back—complete with a little half-smirk—before he turns to the final person in his kitchen. "Obie," he greets.

Obie raises his glass, and the ice cubes tinkle. "Tony."

"He's the one who brought the pizza," Amy explains, her chin propped on Tony's side. "He said it's your favorite. And since he wasn't hungry, he told us stories."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"And America's going to cry when she found out she missed this," Teddy replies. He leans in, his arms on the counter and his face just the wrong side of wicked. "Especially when she hears about the women's basketball team."

Something in the pit of Tony's stomach clenches, but he forces himself to glance over at Obie. "You told them about the UConn incident?" he asks.

Obie shrugs. "A sanitized and age-appropriate version," he promises, and winks at Amy.

She giggles, clearly charmed within an inch of her life, and Tony only realizes how tightly he grips Bruce's hip _after_ the guy flinches. He mutters an apology and forces his fingers to uncurl. "Well, before I dig into whatever sad crusts you people left for me, I think I need a beer. Anybody else?" Miles raises his hand, his ridiculous grin the exact balm Tony needs right now, and he high-fives him as he heads to the garage. "Obie, you want a refill? I keep the good stuff in a toolbox. Protects it from thirsty interlopers."

"You like the thirsty interlopers who come over," Bruce reminds him, almost smiling.

"Some, yes. But all?" He rolls his eyes, but just like that, all the worry slips out of his expression. Tony resists the urge to sigh and jabs a thumb over his shoulder. "C'mon. I don't remember the brand, but it's stupidly expensive and exactly your style."

"Well, if you insist," Obie says, sliding off his stool.

The florescent lights over Tony's workbench burn almost too bright, and he squints as he drags down the toolbox with the hidden scotch. The longer he stands there, though, the more he feels like he's facing down the harsh white light of judgment day with Obie standing in as his personal Saint Peter. He drags out the bottle, slides it down the bench, and heads to the fridge for his beer.

Obie releases an impressed little whistle. "You weren’t kidding, were you?"

Tony shrugs. "What can I say? Ever since my stint in Four Oaks, I save the really good stuff for especially lousy days. Lucky for you, they're pretty infrequent." He waits for Obie to enjoy his first languid sip before he asks, "Why are you here?"

Credit where it's due and all that, the guy actually looks halfway surprised. "I'm not allowed to visit?" he asks.

"Allowed, sure. But given that your style's usually a little more _step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly_ . . . " Obie snorts into his drink, almost laughing, and Tony picks at the label on his beer bottle. "You're not the type to just swing by here on your way home from headquarters. In fact, last time you dropped in unannounced—"

"You still owe me for that, you know," Obie notes, gesturing in the rough direction of Tony's chest. He touches his sternum without really thinking about it, feeling for the ugly scar that lurks underneath, and Obie flashes him a tiny smile. "And for what it's worth, I tried to call you. Your secretary said you'd be busy 'til Monday."

"Trial assistant," Tony corrects automatically, and Obie barely tries to hide his eye roll. Tony jabs his beer bottle at him. "That woman has a degree in—well, something complicated, and at least three different professional certifications. She's not a secretary."

Obie raises his hands. "Your overqualified secretary, then," he amends, and Tony's jaw jumps without his permission. He tightens his grip on his beer bottle, and Obie sighs. "Come on, Tony, I'm kidding. Whatever happened to your sense of humor?"

"Call it a weird personality flaw, but I'm surprisingly humorless when I come home to an uninvited guest telling my kids embarrassing personal stories." Obie cocks an eyebrow, his mouth dangerously close to a smirk, and Tony rolls his eyes. "You really think I'm not embarrassed by the UConn story? Because last I checked, I'm still banned from their campus."

"And last _I_ checked," Obie replies, "it's probably in everybody's best interest that you stay that way."

Tony snorts at him, never mind at the aggressively casual way he sips his drink, but the longer they stand in silence, the more his resolve starts to fray. He grabs a couple lawn chairs from their spot against the wall, unfolding them despite Obie's snide little smirk. When they're both finally situated, he asks, "What do you want, Obie? Really. No bullshit."

"Well, if we're skipping the bullshit, the truth is that I'm here to congratulate you." Tony blinks a little, his brow furrowing, and Obie raises his eyebrows. "Your daughter, remember? Hope filled me in the second I got back from Japan: old girlfriend, seven-year-old daughter, an heir to the Stark throne?" Tony flinches at the line (cribbed from Tilby's terrible Tuesday-night newscast), but Obie just shakes his head. "I'm not saying I agree with the whole 'failed father of four' thing—"

"Good," Tony cuts in, jabbing his bottle at Obie. "Because _that_ label's hovering dangerously close to slander, and the second she crosses that line—"

"The county's best lawyers'll eviscerate her, I'm sure." Tony rolls his lips together at the obvious sarcasm in Obie's tone, but the man simply shrugs at him. "Ten years ago, we'd wave this off. Say that no publicity's bad publicity, arrange a public statement about how you'll be father of the year from here on in. But now that you're an actual father? With three other kids who need you?" He glances down at his glass, his expression surprisingly soft. "I figured maybe I needed to come over. Check in, especially since I've never really met any of your kids." 

Tony studies him for a long time—the slouch to his shoulders, the purse of his lips, the way his thumb traces the lip of his glass—before the tension in his stomach finally unspools. "You're not here about the company?" he asks. "No ulterior motives, no long discussions about proxy votes, just checking in?"

"On you and your family, yes." The sincerity in Obie's words pales in comparison to his face, and he locks gazes with Tony like his life depends on it. "Let me worry about the trickle-down effect on the company for now. What you need to be concerned about is those kids in there. Especially since, from what I can tell, they love their dad to the moon and back."

Tony's chest tightens (but in a good way, this time), and he forces himself to glance down at his hands. "The feeling's pretty mutual," he admits, but he can't really help his smile.

In the end, they refresh Obie's drink before wandering back into the house, and Tony splits the next hour evenly between shoveling food into his face and correcting Obie on the finer details of his college-aged escapades. The kids repeatedly prove their disloyalty by laughing uproariously at every damn story; by the time they switch to ice cream sandwiches (their go-to dessert), Tony's traitors are sharing their own stories.

"Did you hear about when Dad almost burned the kitchen down?" Miles wonders at one point, his feet dangling as he sits on the counter. "Back before they adopted me. Right after we moved in, actually."

Tony chokes on the last of his beer, but Bruce just raises an eyebrow. "You set the kitchen on fire?" he questions.

The beer still settling in his lungs, Tony shakes his head. "Slightly," he says, his voice mostly a croak. "Barely a pan fire. No permanent damage."

"Except his ego," Miles chimes in.

"And possibly his marriage," Obie adds, and Tony seriously reconsiders his fondness for Teddy after the child high-fives _both_ of them.

By the time Obie stands to leave, they're a good hour past Amy's most lenient bedtime, and she whines pitifully as Bruce herds her to bed. "Can I just say goodbye to Obie?" she needles, her eyes big and nearly impossible to refuse. "Please? Because he never came over before, and he's _so_ funny—"

Bruce glances at his watch. "One minute," he warns, and Amy lights up like an entire meteor shower before bodily throwing herself at Obie.

For a couple seconds, the room feels more like some twisted portrait than anything else; Amy clings to Obie's waist, her face in his shirt, while he stands frozen with his arms out to his sides. But eventually, he thaws, and the tension in his posture melts away as he hugs Amy back. Suddenly, Tony's not sure who he's prouder of: the prickly CEO or his recovering wallflower daughter.

The warmth that radiates through his chest only triples when Amy says, "I liked meeting you. You're not like an _abuelo_ , but you're funny."

Obie chuckles lightly. "Somebody needed to teach Tony everything he knows," he replies, and Tony hides the tightness in his throat by snorting.

"Come back some time, will you?" he asks when they're out in the driveway. The October chill cuts through him, forcing him to shove his hands into his pockets. Or at least, that's what he convinces himself when Obie cocks an eyebrow. "Look, I know we're not—whatever," he continues, "but the kids like you. Bruce likes you. Hell, when you're like this, even _I_ like you." 

Obie snorts. "Bruce tolerates me," he corrects, raising a finger when Tony rolls his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Tony. I know mild distaste when I spot it. And with the way I treated the two of you right after you got married, I might even deserve it." Tony purses his lips, not totally clear on the right response, but the other guy just shrugs. "You have a good life here, Tony. Probably better than I pictured in my head, and that's not even counting kid number four. I don't want to interfere."

"You don't need to interfere," Tony stresses. "You just need to, I don't know, be here. Or at least, stop by occasionally. Buy their love with pizza. Not stories, though. Just pizza." Obie snorts, almost rolling his eyes, and Tony studies him for a moment before lightly slugging him in the shoulder. "We used to spend a lot of time together. I miss that. Sometimes, at least."

Obie barely bothers hiding his smirk. "Sometimes?"

"Well, you _did_ tell my kids about the whole UConn thing," Tony reminds him, and he laughs as he walks to his car.

Tony lingers on the stoop for what feels like a suspiciously long time, watching as Obie's brake lights disappear down the street and leave him in the usual autumn darkness. He knows that Obie's not family—that he's barely a friend, depending on the day—but in that instant, the last twenty-odd years of baggage don't really matter. Instead of a middle-aged guy with a family and a whole lot of upheaval, Tony's a college kid again, angry and brilliant and searching for answers.

"You're still searching for answers," he mutters. "Only thing that's changed are the questions."

Back in the living room, he discovers the boys engaged in some desperate _Call of Duty_ battle while Bruce supervises. Well, okay, Bruce scrolls through his Facebook while reminding Miles to watch his appalling (but creative) language, but same difference. 

"Thank you for indulging that particular brand of terribleness," Tony greets, and his husband snorts as he flops down at his side. "And before you ask, he definitely surprised me as much as you. Said he wanted to check in after Monday's shit storm, which I think translates to _help insulate stock prices from total anarchy_."

"Wait, there's stock?" Miles asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Not at all an opportunist, Teddy snipes him from a water tower.

"Did you not listen to any of my tragic backstory two years ago?" Tony retorts, nudging his kid's back with one of his bare feet. "Because I tried to highlight the whole 'broken engineer makes good' thing, but if you ignored it—"

Miles rolls his eyes. "I knew you worked for Stark Industries," he fires back. "I just didn't know we had stock."

"Uh, _you_ do not have stock. Your dad and I have stock. And, if you're lucky, we'll hold onto it instead of, I don't know, blowing it on a boat the second you graduate high school." His kid snorts at him, almost rolling his eyes again, and Bruce hides his amused little smile behind the safety of the iPad. Tony rewards him by kissing him on the shoulder. "Amy in bed?"

"Despite her best efforts, yes," Bruce answers. His fluffy hair falls on his forehead as he glances over, and Tony pushes it out of the way. "She really enjoyed meeting Obie, you know."

"I know," Tony promises, and his husband nods before returning to his newsfeed.

Ten minutes later, after Tony's cushioned his head on Bruce's shoulder and the boys've finished up a pretty lethal round of play, Teddy abandons his controller to lean back on his elbows. He chews his lower lip for a moment, clearly lost in thought; after a good twenty or thirty seconds, though, he tips his head back to look at Tony. 

"Is he always like that?" he asks.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Is who always like—"

"Mister Stane," Teddy answers, and Tony rolls his lips together. "He was funny, but it felt fake. Like when America meets someone's parents."

Miles stops flipping through map options to blink at his brother. "America tries with people's parents?" 

"Well, not _our_ parents. Just everybody else's." Miles grins as he looks back over at the television screen, but Teddy keeps his attention on Tony. "I don't care if he's always that kind of low-key weird," he clarifies. "I just wanted to know."

Tony rolls his lips together for a moment. "You think he's fake?"

Teddy shrugs. "Like he was trying too hard," he says.

"Or like he was trying," Bruce suggests, and he squeezes Tony's knee until he sinks back into him.

 

==

 

"Do you have an escape route?"

Clint asks the question with the utmost solemnity—like kicking off a eulogy, Tony thinks, and grimaces to himself—but Natasha immediately shoots him a dirty look. "He's not trying to break out of prison, Clint," she points out, stabbing a cucumber slice. "He's meeting his daughter."

Clint raises his hands. "You know what? My bad. You're right. No escape route necessary." She nods, obviously pleased with her buddy's backpedaling, but he just tosses a glance over at Tony. "Do you have _multiple_ escape routes planned out? Because if you don't—"

Natasha elbows him, instantly transforming his laughter into pained wheezing. Scrunched together behind the desk, Steve and Bucky smirk into their sandwiches, while Pepper and Bruce retain their titles of _most supportive members of the monkey house_ by pretending not to grin.

Still, Tony scowls at all of them. "Next time my life blows up in my face," he threatens, "I'm calling Phil and Thor."

Clint snorts. "Good luck with that," he retorts, swiping Natasha's soda.

She wrinkles her nose, immediately snatching it right back, and Tony props his feet up on the edge of Bruce's chair as two of the most competent attorneys in the county (and possibly the known universe) start bickering like school children. Most the time, eating lunch in Steve's office feels like an exercise in claustrophobia, the seven of them all shoved together like sardines in suit coats—but today, as the October rain pelts the windows, Tony welcomes it. Because even though he's close enough to wrap an arm around Natasha (not that he _will_ , obviously) and the whole room smells like Bucky's egg salad, there's something comforting about being around his favorite people.

Well, most of them. Since Rhodey covers the security desk over the lunch hour and everything.

He snatches a chip out of Bruce's bag as Bucky leans his elbows on the desk. "Where are you meeting, anyway?" he asked. "A coffee shop or something?"

"Since I'm not buying something on Craiglist, no. We're meeting at Maya's apartment." Steve literally chokes on his iced tea, and immediately, the whole room swivels its attention in Tony's direction. Staring at him like he's grown a couple more arms, but he ignores his rising dread to roll his eyes. "What?" he asks. "You think we should kick off our father-daughter relationship at a Starbucks? Share a hot chocolate while college students listen to— I don't know, what do college students listen to?"

"Mumford and Sons?" Clint guesses.

"We're not going to listen if you keep dropping them into conversations," Steve reminds him, and the guy snorts as he reaches for his sandwich.

Tony resists his urge to grin. "My point," he emphasizes, "is that—"

"It's bold." As much as he usually loves Pepper's unshakeable calm (because she weathers every storm like a lighthouse, standing tall above the rocky shore), something about her absolute certainty sours Tony's stomach. "I'm not saying you should meet at Starbucks," she continues, "but if you're alone—"

"The ladies in my knittin' circle just might start talkin'?" Bucky cackles at Tony's (admittedly lackluster) Southern accent, but Pepper just sighs and shakes her head. "Stars and garters, am I gonna besmirch my good name? Tarnish my honor, and all on account of Miss Maya Hansen's irrepressible _charms_?"

He bats his eyelashes on the last word, his hand plastered over his heart, and Pepper rolls her eyes while Clint and Natasha snicker in truly terrifying unison. Steve, on the other hand, just cocks his head to the side. "Remind me why we're friends with you? Because all of a sudden, I'm struggling to remember."

A few feet away, Bruce shrugs. "Try being married to him," he suggests, and Steve holds it together for about five seconds before he bursts out laughing.

The conversation drifts to other subjects after that, and Tony falls into the normal rhythm of five trial attorneys complaining about their least-favorite defendants (or, in Bruce's case, least-favorite struggling parents). But the longer he sits and listens, the more he feels Pepper's eyes on him. She searches his face for a long time, studies him until his skin itches, and when he stops ignoring it to raise his eyebrows at her, she purses her lips and glances elsewhere.

They sit like that a long time, Pepper pretending to smile at Clint's latest courtroom disaster while Tony tries desperately to read her expression. He only really throws in the towel after Bruce squeezes his knee and tosses him an inquisitive little look.

_It's fine_ , Tony mouths, and if Bruce senses the little white lie, he keeps that one to himself.

But when their lunch hour meeting of the minds finally disperses and Tony returns to his office, he finds a post-it note waiting for him in the center of his desk:

_I just want you to be careful. That's all._

He reads it a half-dozen times before he unlocks his computer and opens an e-mail to his trial assistant.

_i know you do_ , he types, even as his stomach twists itself into a giant knot. _i appreciate it._

_Do you?_ Pepper replies a minute later, and Tony glances at the note one last time before tossing it in the recycle bin.

 

==

 

"You're Amy's dad?"

In a lot of ways, Tesla Adelaide Hansen reminds Tony of just about every other second grader on a planet: long ponytail, patterned dress, ankle socks covered in cartoon rabbits. She even displays her worry like some of the other kids in Amy's Girl Scout troop, her lower lip trapped between her teeth as she waits for an answer. But the longer Tony studies her, the more he remembers a second grader from thirty years back, one with the same well-bitten fingernails, fluttery eyelashes, and perpetually curious expression.

That boy tipped his head to the left when he waited for an answer.

Tess tips hers to the right, and Tony's heart crawls into his throat. "Well, actually—"

"I know not _really_ ," Tess clarifies, sitting up a little straighter. "Like, she told me right away that you're not related by blood or biography—"

In her spot next to her kid, Maya cringes. "Biology," she corrects, her voice gentle. "Biography's something a little different."

Tess wrinkles her nose. "It's almost the same," she defends, and Tony bites back a laugh at her elementary-aged indignation. Except his smile grabs the girl's attention, and she floors him with the full force of her gaze. "But I'm right? About you being her dad?"

He drums his thumb against his knee, a stalling tactic as he summons up the courage for something other than a one-word answer. "Technically, I'm still just her foster parent, but yeah," he says, forcing a little smile. "She's lived with us for about a year. We're adopting her sometime soon. This spring, probably."

Tess nods and purses her lips, looking more like somebody's elderly grandmother than an eager seven-year-old. She picks at a snag on her dress, her brow furrowed, before finally tossing an uncertain glance over at her mom. They glance at each other for a few seconds, a conversation of raised eyebrows and unreadable frowns, before Maya smiles. She strokes Tess's shoulder and says, "You can ask. I promise he won't bite."

"On purpose," Tony replies, raising a hand. "But sometimes, if I'm going to town on a chicken wing and not paying attention . . . "

Both Hansens snort as he trails off, and the second their expressions soften, he flashes them an easy grin. Like a harmless stranger in a grocery store, he thinks, rather than an unknown quantity in a cramped apartment. Tess smiles back at him, ducking her head, and he feels the knot in his stomach unwind.

Well, until she asks, "That makes Amy my sister, right?"

Maya sputters, almost choking on air, and for a second, Tony seriously debates high-fiving the kid. But when she glances up at him through her eyelashes, her face simultaneously lost and hopeful, Tony swallows. "That's one way of putting it," he admits, shrugging. "But don't tell her brothers, okay? They don't like when we play favorites."

"If you're my dad, they're my brothers," Tess points out, her brow crinkling a little. "And Amy's other dad is my, uh—"

"Whatever you decide you want him to be," Tony assures her, and she studies him for a second before nodding. "And if all you want to talk about today's my family, that's fine. I'll tell you all about them, list off their favorite foods in alphabetical order, whatever you want. But before we do that, I just want to make sure you understand that I'm—"

"My dad." Even in Tess's voice—soft, careful, lightly English—the word sounds heavy, and it settles in Tony's stomach like a stone. Still, he nods, and she rolls her lips together. "Mom told me," she says, picking some lint from her sock. "She said you used to really like each other and about how everything you felt turned into me."

Maya glances away, tilting her face down to her coffee cup, but Tony still catches the blush crawling up her neck. "That's about how I explained it to my kids," he admits, looking back at Tess. "She tell you that caring about her scared me?"

The kid chews on her lower lip for a second before she answers, "She said you were sick. Not, like, with a cough, but with something in your head and your heart." Maya snorts, almost smiling, and Tess finally raises her head. "She said you needed to go to a special hospital. And that her being far away from you probably helped you get better."

Tony's chest constricts at that, hard enough and sudden enough that he almost forgets to breathe, but he still shakes his head. "I'm not sure that's true."

"You didn’t—" Maya says, but before she finishes the thought, her cell phone rings. She jumps a little, obviously surprised, and snatches it off the coffee table. "I need to— I'm helping a colleague from London with a paper, and—"

"Still not biting," Tony reassures her, and she blinks at him before her flustered expression settles into light annoyance. Tess hides a giggle behind her hand, her eyes glimmering, and Tony barely resists his urge to wink at her. "Go deal with your work call. We're fine here."

Maya rolls her lips together. "You sure?" she asks, her eyes falling on her daughter.

Tess draws a rough _X_ across her chest. "Cross my heart," she replies, and her mom kisses her on the forehead before ducking out of the room.

But the room feels silent and empty without her, like sitting in an echo chamber, and Tony rubs his palms on his pants as he tries to fill the sudden quiet. Tess watches him carefully, her elbows on her knees and her face endlessly curious. Like she plans on unlocking the world's secrets through a staring contest, Tony thinks, a trait that reminds her more of Dot than any of his own kids. 

Finally, though, Tess says, "My mom thinks you're a good dad."

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Really?" he blurts, and immediately flinches at the surprise in his tone. "Not that doubt my parenting prowess or anything, but—"

"She said she read articles," Tess volunteers. "About how you got married and started being a dad. I guess it's why she decided you could be my dad. Because you're already a good one."

She shrugs a little, her eyes drifting back down to her lap, and Tony loses a second to watching her pick at her cuticles before he stands. She snaps her head up, a clear hint of panic flashing across her face, but Tony smiles as he walks over and joins her on the couch. "I don't know how much I trust articles," he admits, "but I try to be a good dad. To all three kids, not just Miles or—"

"Amy." He nods, and for some reason, Tess offers him another one of those tiny, bashful smiles. "Amy loves you a lot, you know. Like, she talks about you and her other dad all the time. And about her brothers and dogs and your whole big _life_." She tosses a nervous little glance back toward the hallway, like she expects Maya to reappear at any moment. "I don't have a life like that. Or a big family."

"Your mom's pretty great, though," Tony reminds her, nudging her arm. She wrinkles her nose, snorting slightly, but she still elbows him back. "That bother you, though? Knowing that having me for a dad means two brothers, a sister, and a Bruce?"

Tess shrugs. "Maybe."

He ignores the way his stomach clenches to raise eyebrows. "Only maybe?"

This time, her smile hovers dangerously between _delighted_ and _totally wicked_. "You haven't listed all their favorite foods yet," she reminds him, and for the first time all afternoon, he laughs.

 

==

 

"But," Tony says, his feet on the coffee table, "we're going to find a time to hang out again. All of us. As a family."

"Great, another little sister to barricade out of my bedroom," Miles grumbles, scowling. He flips a couple pages in his book before groaning. "Why can't my teacher pick anything _good_? First, we read that book about the guy who broke his leg, and now—"

"Are you still talking shit about _A Separate Peace_?" Teddy asks, flopping down on the other end of the couch. "Because like I said when you read it, that book's—"

"A tragic love story, since you literally can't look at any two guys without wanting them to kiss." Teddy shrugs as he unearths the remote from under a throw pillow, and Miles tips his head back. "I don't know what's worse: reading about this weird Jonas kid or listening to Dad talk about meeting Tess."

"Wait, you're criticizing _The Giver_?" Tony demands.

"Uh, better question: you met Tess? On your own?" He rolls his lips together, and Teddy studies him for a couple seconds before he glances back at the television. "Bruce said you had a meeting."

"Bruce wanted to soften the whole thing for your sister." Teddy nods, still distractedly thumbing through their overflowing DVR list; on Tony's other side, Miles stares unblinkingly at the ceiling. "Look," he continues, "we're doing the best we can with this whole thing, but until you're all comfortable with Tess and _she's_ comfortable with you, we're—"

"Being weird and hiding everything?" Miles guesses, and the accusation in his tone strips away the last of Tony's good mood. Because he'd arrived home to a house that smelled like teriyaki, and he'd grinned at all the good-natured bickering that'd rushed up to meet him. He'd basked in that glow all through dinner and homework time, but now—with Amy and Bruce working on one of her reading assignments and the boys staring at him—he feels only the last dim embers.

He rolls his lips together. "We don't want anybody to get hurt," he says, and he ignores the way Teddy glances down at his hands. "I know this is weird. Hard. Next to impossible, really, and that's from a guy who used to literally build the impossible." Miles snorts, almost rolling his eyes, and Tony knocks their knees together. "I'm not trying to be secretive," he promises. "If anything, I'm trying to protect you."

Teddy snorts. "From a seven-year-old."

"Not from her," Tony answers, shaking his head. "From me."

The words hang in the space between them for a long time, like fog on an unseasonably cold morning, and he only realizes he's holding his breath when Miles flops against him. Leans on him, like he plans on them huddling together for warmth, and Tony smiles as he slings an arm around his kid's shoulders. He kisses him on the head, just the barest little peck, and even though Miles snorts at him, he presses closer.

"You want in on this?" Tony asks Teddy, his free arm still stretched against the back of the couch. "Because contrary to popular belief, I'm a truly fantastic multitasker."

Teddy rolls his eyes. "I've seen you try to walk and chew gum," he replies, but he smiles when Tony ruffles his hair.

When Bruce and Amy trail in a couple minutes later, they discover them exactly like that: Tony stroking Teddy's hair while Miles, tucked up against him, trudges through _The Giver_. Amy hesitates for almost one entire second before diving on top of their cuddle pile, and Tony grimaces through not one but two blows to the solar plexus.

Still, Amy smells like coconut detangler and lemon hand soap as she snuggles up against him, a nice addition to the lingering scent of Axe body spray and fabric softener. He buries his face in her hair for a moment, just to drink her in.

Bruce, never to be outdone, cards his fingers through Tony's hair as he wanders into the kitchen.

Tony waits until he fills and starts the kettle to say, "I love you guys, you know that?"

"You're pretty okay, too," Teddy returns, and he grins when Tony drags him in for a hug.

 

==

 

The second the kids trickle in from school the next day (complete with Miles still grumbling about his homework), Amy drops her backpack, surges forward, and throws both arms around Tony's waist. He stumbles into the kitchen island, almost dropping his phone, but his kid just hugs him until he thinks they'll _both_ suffocate.

He blinks, a little surprised by her sudden affection, and strokes fingers through her hair. "You know you need to clue me in, right? Because while I'm comfortable being father of the year for the third year running, I'm not totally sure—"

"Tess," Amy says, and when she tips her face up in his direction, her smile almost slays him. "She talked to me today. She said because you talked to her and her mom, we're allowed to be friends again. And I'm _so_ happy."

The softest part of Tony's chest constricts, almost choking him, but he grins down at her anyway. "You know we're starting an uphill battle, right?" he asks. "Because bringing Tess into the family's not some overnight thing, it'll take time."

"As long as I keep my friend, I don't care," Amy reports, hugging him harder.

He waits until he finishes his e-mail to Maya before hugging her back.

Late that night, after he's arranged another after-school meetup with the Hansens, Bruce glances up from his ten-pound biography of George Washington to peer at Tony. He sits there a long time, his expression a little unreadable, before questioning, "You ask Maya about a paternity test?"

Tony rolls his lips together. "Next time I visit," he promises, and Bruce nods unevenly before returning to his book.


	9. The Longest Distance Between Two Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony celebrates Halloween with the usual suspects, plus two newly familiar faces. But as much as he wants to pretend that everything's perfectly fine, he feels the cold hand of _something_ (his own version of a Halloween specter, maybe) creeping up behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. Especially saranoh, whose comments on this chapter filled me with joy.

Call him weak, but the second Tony spots Maya's car (a silver Honda, probably leased) rounding the corner, he says, "Okay, this is officially a terrible idea."

Steve shoots him one of those knowing looks, all raised eyebrows and enigmatic little almost-smiles, but Amy interrupts his inevitable color commentary by stomping a foot. "Dot invited her," she says for about the hundredth time, her arms crossed over the bodice of her Anna costume. "Tess said she wanted to come over and play again, and Dot told her about Halloween. And since Bruce and Uncle Steve both say it's rude to change your mind after you invite somebody—"

Tony raises his hands. "I'm not denying your cousin's complicity in this Greek tragedy," he assures her. "I'm just saying, for posterity, that this whole thing is a terrible idea."

Amy wrinkles her nose. "I bet some people think your posterity is a terrible idea," she sneers, and Steve Rogers—well-established parenting guru and owner of the universe's most impressive judgment face—immediately bursts out laughing.

Tony scowls at the two of them, both grinning and red-faced at his expense, and glances back at the Honda. Over the last almost two weeks, Tony's glimpsed that car on every visit to Maya's apartment complex, but now, the sight alone fills him with dread. Because while he's managed a couple additional after-school visits to talk to his daughter about math, movies, and their shared love of pepperoni, Tess still hasn't _really_ met the family. At least, not in her official capacity as the fourth Stark child. 

But now, she sits in the back of her mother's car, less than a hundred feet from Steve's front porch. The front porch built for snapping pictures before they leave for trick-or-treating. 

As a group. A big, friendly, extended-family sort of group, one that includes Ganke and the Sam Wilson household as hangers-on.

Tony's stomach swims.

The sick feeling doubles-down the second Tess emerges from the car—not, of course, that anyone notices. Instead, Amy elbows past him to jet across the front lawn, her dress streaming behind her, and the girls nearly collapse together on the sidewalk. Their laughter sounds mostly like pained shrieking.

To avoid the chasm of emotion opening up in his gut, he glances over at Steve. "Feel free to drop the politeness ball a little with the next kid, will you? I can't have all this kindness rubbing off on mine. It'll ruin my reputation."

Steve snorts and shakes his head. "I'll see what I can do," he promises, and pats Tony's shoulder before abandoning him outside.

Tony rolls his eyes, more for show than anything else, and watches as the girls start babbling a mile a minute. While still clinging to each other, he realizes, and he works hard not to think of them as sisters already. Because until Amy's officially adopted—and, a voice in the back of his mind whispers, a DNA test confirms Tess's identity—they're just classmates and friends, nothing more complicated.

"I'm almost jealous," somebody remarks all of a sudden, and Tony jerks out of his thoughts just as Maya joins him on the front porch. She wears a slouchy sweater and skinny jeans, like a mom out of a primetime sitcom, and she raises her eyebrows when he blinks at her. "The girls," she clarifies, gesturing to the yard. "Almost makes me wish I had siblings."

He snorts. "Thanks, but in case you forgot, my dad didn't have enough love or affection for one kid, let alone multiples." She shakes her head at that, her smile dimming, and he rolls his lips together. "You didn't have to come, you know. I mean, Dot's pretty convincing for a first-grader, but given, well, _everything_ . . . "

He gestures weakly to the space between them, and she crosses her arms. "You'd rather we try dinner? Because last time, a teenager hustled me out the back gate."

"Only after you dropped some conversational napalm and watched the world burn," Tony fires back, and she huffs as she glances away. He follows her gaze back to the girls, watching as Amy models her ludicrously expensive but Disney-approved Princess Anna outfit. "Talking to Tess—to kids, really—that's easy. A couple well-placed jokes, a pop culture reference or two, and I'm in like Flynn. But with the rest of this, I don't—" Maya looks back over, and instead of finishing the thought, he sighs. "I'm still trying to figure out how we do the whole 'sharing a kid despite all the baggage and distance' thing, I guess."

Something in her face instantly softens, and despite what're clearly her very best efforts, her smile dims. "You do okay with Bruce," she points out.

"Yeah, but that's—" he starts, but he stumbles when she bites her bottom lip and tucks her hair behind her ear. Just like Tess, he thinks, and his stomach clenches. "I never planned on kids before Bruce," he admits, "and after we fell into each other, I kind of figured he'd be my one and only coparent. Which isn't an indictment on you or anything, but—"

"We're not something you planned on," Maya finishes, her voice almost lost to the October breeze.

He waits a beat or two before nodding. "More or less," he replies, and she smiles weakly as she glances back at the girls.

He tries to summon up some sort of balm, some temporary fix for the sudden gulf between them, but the second he opens his mouth (presumably to stick his foot in), Queen Elsa bursts out of the front door. "Tess!" she shouts, and suddenly she's sprinting into the front yard, a fluffy reindeer on her heels. Back in the house, a peal of laughter butts right up against a litany of curse words, and Tony drags Maya out of the line of fire just as Sam Wilson storms out onto the porch. 

"Captain Fluffyass, I swear to _all_ things—" he threatens, but he stops in his tracks the second he spots the girls. They stop laughing as a unit, their expressions curious and at least a little terrified, and for one incredible moment, Sam tilts his head up to the porch ceiling like he expects righteous judgment to strike him dead on the spot. When the sweet release of death fails him, though, he sighs. 

Captain Fluffybritches—trained therapy dog by day, hairy menace on nights, weekends, and holidays—flops over in the grass and shows off his belly.

Crossing her arms over her sparkly teal bodice, Dorothea of Arendelle glowers up at the porch. "Mister Riley said that Cap's not a working dog today," she reports for at least the fifth time in the last hour. "He's allowed to play with us instead of staying in the house. That's why he's not wearing his cape."

Maya's swallowed laugh sounds mostly like a squeak, and Sam's jaw twitches exactly twice before he plasters on one of his easy smiles. "You ever gonna call it a vest, or are we seriously sticking with cape?" he asks. "'Cause I know it's a fun color and everything, but—"

"He helps Mister Riley with his super dog powers," Dot reports. "That means he's a superhero, and superheroes wear capes."

"Uh, except in _The Incredibles_." Tess fiddles with her weird tool belt, suddenly shy, and she spends a long time glancing between Tony and her mom before she dares to openly defy Dot by meeting her eyes. "You know that movie, right? Because the lady in it, she always says 'no capes.'"

Despite loving his bossy, headstrong, irrepressible goddaughter like most people love their own children, Tony still holds his breath and waits for a truly scathing comeback from his second (arguably third) favorite little girl.

At least, until Dot's whole face lights up. "I like you _so_ much!" she declares, and she almost knocks Tess over with the ensuing hug.

Maya's shoulders immediately loosen, a relief that Tony shares (even if he tries to hide it a little), and he pats her on the arm a couple times before discovering just how many people've joined them on the porch. Because in addition to the still-seething Sam, he spots Riley, Bucky, Ganke, and, lurking in the doorway, Miles. Worse, they all stand around with the subtlety of teenage shoplifters casing the 7-11's selection of outdated _Playboy_ s.

For a second, Tony seriously considers chasing them away with the porch broom. Instead, though, he just rolls his eyes. "You look like a teenage acting troupe waiting for your cue," he informs them. "And not for a good show, either. You're clearly putting on _Godspell_."

Riley wrinkles his nose. "I like _Godspell_ ," he defends.

"Just another reason we're not married," Sam shoots back.

Like every other member of the Long-Suffering Partner Club, Riley snorts and rolls his eyes, and Tony ignores all of them to glance back at Maya. She stands a little awkwardly, her hands in her back pockets and her smile off-kilter, and for a split second, Tony wonders if he'll be fielding these introductions for the whole rest of their lives. _Meet my youngest kid and her mom_ , he'll say at birthdays, graduations, and weddings, always bracing for impact.

But before he really steels himself this time, Riley steps out of the pack and extends a hand. "You must be Maya," he says, employing one of his most disarming smiles. "I'm Riley. I own the fluffy troublemaker and the dog."

Bucky's surprised bark of laughter sounds more like dying crow anything else, not that Sam even acknowledges it. Instead, he jabs a finger in Riley's shoulder and demands, "Who you calling fluffy? Last time I checked, you could cut diamonds on these abs."

"The chicken-fried steak you blew through at breakfast this morning disagrees." Sam scowls, crossing his arms, but Riley just twists back to Maya. "We've heard a lot about you. Glad you came."

Even though her shrug's pretty halfhearted, Tony counts her little smile as a serious blessing. "According to Tess, we didn't have much of a choice. Something about Dot and a kickball?"

Bucky cringes. "She hide the ball until Tess promised to come?" he asks, his embarrassment almost palpable the second Maya nods. "That's kind of her new negotiation tactic. Not sure where she learned it, but I'm blaming Clint."

"Or America," Ganke offers. He leans casually against the porch swing, another in a long line of attempts to look halfway suave, but he loses his balance almost immediately. He rights himself to the sound of Miles's snickering before saying, "America snatches stuff when you're trying to avoid answering her. Like your phone, your soda, that kind of thing."

Miles snorts. "Only if you keep pretending you're _not_ checking out the chick at the music store." While his best friend flares red from his Prince Hans cravat to his hairline, Miles glances over at Maya. "There's this cute blonde girl at the music place at the mall. America wants to be his wingman."

Sam glances at Bucky, who shrugs. "Sounds reasonable to me," he reports.

Predictably, Ganke buries his face in his hands and groans.

Miles sighs as he comforts his buddy with a warm pat on the shoulder, and Tony waits a second for the ruckus to calm down before tossing a glance over at Maya. "To anticipate your inevitable question: yes, my family and assorted hangers-on always acts like this, and I'm not the least bit sorry."

Riley grins. "We're not hangers-on when you're craving an intense game of Ticket to Ride," he points out.

And before Tony drums up the requisite comeback, Maya laughs. "Sounds like Tony," she reports, and he scowls when she accepts Sam's intensely self-satisfied high five.

"Are you guys done with all the grown-up stuff, yet?" 

Newly crowned queen or not, Dot still sounds ridiculously impatient, and Tony glances over his shoulder to discover all three girls peering at him from the porch steps. They're a motley bunch, Dot and Amy in their Disney best while Tess wears a red sweater dress with a tool belt and some high-top sneakers, but they still look incredibly happy. Like the very best of friends, Tony thinks, and the thought warms him from the inside out.

At least, until Dot huffs at him. "We want to go trick-or-treating," she explains, "but everybody keeps talking about grown-up things instead of _leaving_."

There's just enough unbridled sass tacked onto the last word that Bucky raises his eyebrows. "You wanna try that again?" he prompts.

Dot screws up her face at him, clearly considering one of her more aggressive hissy-fits, but Amy immediately reaches out and plants a hand over her fairy godsister's mouth. "Can we please leave now?" she asks. "Before all the good candy's gone and the dog eats his antlers?"

As if on cue, Cap stops pawing at his terrible headgear and blinks up at them.

Bucky sighs in defeat. "The candy search party leaves as soon as I grab my stupid Sven head," he declares, and the girls all wriggle in delight. "Any adult brave enough to join us, meet me in the yard. Same with the age-inappropriate princes."

Miles stops adjusting his Kristoff-style snow cap to scowl at his almost-uncle, but Ganke just shrugs. "I don't care if it's weird, man. Free candy's still free candy, and people love a Halloween theme."

"You're weirdly comfortable with marrying a second-grader," Miles grumbles, but he still follows his best friend down the steps into the yard.

Tony grins as he glances at Maya, fully prepared to drag her into the festivities until he realizes that she's already at the bottom of the stairs, engaged in an intense conversation with Sam, Riley, and Tess. Most of what they're talking about flies right over Tony's head—he hears something about an "impossible girl" named Clara and some kind of doctor—but seeing the two Hansens cracking up with his friends leaves a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not a bad one, mind you, but he's not exactly comforted by the sight, either. 

Instead, he mostly feels like he's hanging out in purgatory, waiting for the harsh light of judgment to shine down from the heavens.

"I really need to stop hanging out with church people," he mutters.

Like the porch, the whole Rogers-Barnes house smells like fall, crisp and cool and a little bit musty. The old wooden floors groan a little as he wanders through the living room, and by the time he finds Steve and Bruce in the kitchen, they're both propped up against the countertop and waiting for him. 

"Everything going okay?" Steve asks, smile barely masking his obvious curiosity.

"Depends on how we feel about Wilson plotting my demise," Tony retorts, and he ignores the way Steve rolls his eyes to sidle up to Bruce. He slings an arm low around his waist, but somehow, he resists the urge to actively bury his face in his husband's neck. "Pretty sure we're at the 'speak now or forever hold your peace' part of the trick-or-treating program, so if you're planning on joining the crew—"

"I'm not." The certainty in Bruce's answer kind of fizzles Tony's brain a little, and he blinks dumbly as his husband shakes his head. "Since Steve drew the short straw this year, I might as well keep him company. And besides, you . . . " 

He hesitates slightly, almost flinching, and Tony frowns. "Look, Bruce, if something's wrong—"

"Everything's fine," Bruce interrupts, not that the hand he raises really helps against the rising tide of Tony's anxiety. At least, not until he rests that hand on the side of Tony's neck. "What I wanted to say is that you and the kids, especially Miles, need this time with Tess and Maya a lot more than I do. It just started to come out wrong. That's all."

His thumb drifts along Tony's jaw, and Tony rolls his lips together. "But—"

"It's okay, Tony. Go." For the first time in a long time—maybe even in their whole marriage—there's something bittersweet in the way Bruce cups Tony's cheek, but he swallows down around his doubt and kisses his husband's palm. Bruce smiles at that, his expression soft and endlessly comforting. "I'll see you when you get back, okay?"

"Yeah," Tony murmurs, but he kisses Bruce long and slow before he actually leaves the room.

When he walks back out onto the porch, Bucky narrows his eyes. "You okay?" he asks, sounding like a little old man stuck on his large-print crossword puzzle.

Tony tosses a glance over his shoulder before he shrugs. "Ask me again in an hour or two."

 

==

 

"And now, as promised: all the hot cider that's fit to drink."

The October breeze cuts through the trees as Tony passes the tray down to Miles, and despite his best efforts, he shivers through his sweatshirt. Even with the crackling bonfire (courtesy, Tony suspects, of America and her endless collection of lighters), the October night feels crisp and clean, like the memory of long-past snow. 

When the tray reaches America, she sniffs one of the mugs and scowls. "Yeah, no thanks," she complains, handing the drinks off to Eli. "Not exactly my kind of cider."

"Because I hid the cinnamon whisky before you all showed up." She huffs, almost wrinkling her nose, and Tony raises his hands. "Not that I object to underage drinking. Hell, I practically invented it. But since my friends regularly prosecute drunk teenagers—"

"And by your friends," Billy interrupts, "you mean you?"

"Me?" Tony gestures to his chest, and Billy nods expectantly. "No, contrary to popular belief, I don't prosecute anything. I just eviscerate people on appeal. Something I'd expect my inevitable future son-in-law to know, by the way."

Billy and Teddy prove their "synchronized soulmate" status by blushing in unison, and their friends all laugh at their expense. Well, all of them except Kate, who swings her feet into Eli's lap like she's already heard all of Tony's best jokes. "Barton's not that bad," she defends. "We'd all survive his dopey-puppy experience."

"Except," Tony says, pointing at her, "Barton only landed your case thanks to dumb luck and a stunning lack of seniority. Normal juvenile prosecutor's Thor Odinson, and trust me: you do _not_ want to land on his shit list."

While Kate glares at his finger, America shrugs. "He's not totally wrong," she reports.

Tony raises both hands. "See? Drunk children need not apply." The kids pretty much roll their eyes in unison, and Tony plants a hand on Miles's head while he retrieves the empty drink tray. The kid squirms, but his grin tells a whole different story. "I'll be back with snacks, unless you want me to hang around and critique your life choices."

Teddy cringes. "Yeah, let's stick to snacks," he replies, and Tony grins.

The teens wait until he hits the deck to resume their conversation, but even from across the yard, Tony hears most of their laughter and all of Ganke's agonized groaning. For a minute, he just stands there, soaking in the cold night air and not at all avoiding his husband. 

Or, actually, not his husband. More like the inevitable passage of time, ticking him closer to the moment where he admits that he's _still_ not asked Maya for a paternity test and that, the longer he waits, the more he dreads the question. Because even standing together on the sidewalk, their shoulders brushing as they supervised the two princesses and their (literal and figurative) companion, he'd never quite drummed up the courage. Instead, he'd asked a dozen questions about _Doctor Who_ , life in London, and Tess's favorite holiday traditions.

"All the important stuff," Tony grumbles, and walks into the house.

The dogs barely lift their heads to greet him, too exhausted from an evening of barking at trick-or-treaters. When Tony crouches down to scratch Butterfingers behind the ears, he discovers Dot and Amy crashed out in the middle of the living room floor, their sleeping bags pretty much abandoned and their limbs splayed out. He laughs a little at the two of them, twin starfishes in rumpled princess costumes, but something in his chest constricts. Even before he knew about Tess, he loved these girls: his fearless niece and his shy daughter.

Two pieces of a heart that feels too small, he thinks, and he leaves the dogs to find his husband.

Bruce jerks a little when Tony threads fingers through his hair, and he blinks the sleep out of his eyes while Tony chuckles. "Either Steve talked you to death, or this year's candy trade negotiations really tapped you out."

"Or I passed out to avoid hearing 'Let It Go' for the eight-millionth time," Bruce suggests. He tips into Tony's touch, and he nearly presses his face into Tony's arm when Tony joins him on the couch. "How're the boys?"

Tony shrugs. "Hungry, mostly. I promised to bring out some snacks. After checking that none of my hidden flasks disappeared courtesy of a sticky-fingered Latina." Bruce nods absently, his eyelids drooping, and Tony strokes his neck. "Listen, if you're tired—"

"I don't—" Bruce yawns, his jaw nearly cracking, but he rolls his eyes at Tony's shit-eating grin. "I won't really sleep when our yard's full of teenagers and fire."

"Yeah, except I'm more than willing to babysit our budding arsonists," Tony reminds him. "Go to bed. Preferably before you crash on the couch and twinge something that ruins _both_ our mornings."

Bruce snorts at that, his nose wrinkling, but his laugh lines still crinkle when Tony plants a hand on his thigh to kiss him goodnight. A lingering kiss, the kind filled with promises about tomorrow morning—and the million mornings after that. Even when they break apart, Tony rests his forehead against Bruce's temple, breathing in the lingering scent of his deodorant and favorite tea. Basking in his better half, he thinks, and he curls his fingers against Bruce's slacks.

Bruce sits back just enough to raise an eyebrow. "What's wrong?" he murmurs.

Tony studies him for a moment, close enough to feel him breathe, and in that instant, he almost forgets about the distance between them. The chasm of Tony's creation, a hole he dug with his own bare hands. But instead of saying all that—instead of admitting to his guilt and fear and constant self-doubt—he smiles. "I missed you."

Immediately, Bruce's shoulders soften. "Me too," he replies, swooping in for another kiss.

By the time Tony assembles enough snacks for his team of greedy teenagers, Bruce is asleep on the couch and snoring lightly. Tony drapes a blanket around him, tucking him in with the kind of care he usually reserves for Amy; when he kisses his husband's temple, Bruce just sighs and presses his face into the pillow. "I'll leave a couple Advil on the bedside table," Tony promises, but he sticks around for a minute longer, just to watch him sleep.

The cold outside shocks him like a shot of strong whisky, and he shivers a little as he trudges out into the yard. The wet grass squeaks under his shoes, but not enough to drown out the conversation about the fire pit, and Tony slows the second he hears the words _Tess_ and _suspicious_ in the same sentence.

"Listen, I know what you're saying," America says as he approaches, her legs stretched across Kate's lap and hanging off the other side. "You wanna think the best of people, which, shit. I'd like a little more of your sunny disposition or whatever you call it, you know? But Teddy, where I come from—"

"The mean streets of Suffolk County," Billy interrupts, his voice almost comically gruff. The other kids all laugh, the tension cracking without actually breaking, and America scowls as she crosses her arms. The comment smells like part of an old argument, originating in a church basement but only recently turned sour. 

Kate squeezes America's knee, and the two exchange a pretty loaded glance. Eventually, though, America sighs. "People get played," she continues, looking back at Teddy. "Not every time, and not even 'cause people try and be malicious. Somebody just starts a lie rolling, and by the end, everybody's wrapped up in the bullshit."

"America Chavez: professional ray of sunshine," Eli comments dryly. America stretches, trying to kick him over Kate's body, and he smacks her foot away. "I didn't say you were wrong, did I? Because I've seen the same kind of shit, and I think you hit the nail right on the head." He tosses a glance over at Teddy. "No offense."

Teddy shrugs. "Not sure I'm allowed to be offended about this, since I'm the free kid they landed when they fell in love with Amy." Miles jerks his head away from his phone, his expression openly alarmed, but Teddy heads off his sputtering with a raised hand. "Not like that," he promises. "Just— I'm going to college, you know? I'll still stop by, but nobody'll be trying to raise me with a new sister hanging around. Whatever happens after the dust clears isn't really my problem."

Miles rolls his lips together, his gaze drifting back to his phone, and Ganke rolls his eyes. "Yeah, except the dads'll literally _never_ let you escape," he points out. "They'll probably want to, like, walk you down the aisle. While wearing sneakers and playing a Journey song."

"AC/DC, actually." The kids all jump as Tony steps out of the shadows, but he shakes off the cold that's settled in the bottom of his stomach to grin. "We're going to paint flames on the sides of the sneakers, by the way. Full-on embarrassing parent mode, just because we love you."

He reaches to plant a smacking kiss on the top of Teddy's head, but as usual, the kid ducks away at the last second. "Are you sure we can't go _away_ to college?" he asks his boyfriend. "I've heard Columbia's really great and, you know, far away."

"Foster kids land free in-state tuition," Billy reminds him, nudging his arm. "Besides, I kind of like them."

"And someday," Tony retorts, "you'll update the _kind of_ to _definitely_ , and I'll have finally won." Both boys wrinkle their noses at that, clearly a little annoyed, but Tony just holds up his snack tray. "Now, are you guys hungry, or—"

Immediately, Kate stretches grabby hands in Tony's direction. "Even if Teddy runs away for good, I'm totally coming back here. Possibly forever."

Tony snorts. "Just don't repeat that to Barton," he warns, and tosses her a bag of Doritos.

 

==

 

Late that night, after the fire dies and the teenagers scatter, Tony lies in bed and opens up his text messages.

**Maya Hansen:** _We both had a really good time tonight. It felt like being part of the family._

**Maya Hansen:** _Although I worry that Dot might actually rule the world someday._

Both messages are hours old, sent while Tony shoveled pizza into squirming little girls and helped Teddy hunt down the last of the lighter fluid for the fire pit. He reads them a dozen times, his eyes narrowing in the dark.

Finally, he types, _we need a paternity test, maya. i need to know this is real. not even for my sake, but for my family._

He locks his phone, resolving to send it as soon as he wakes up.

An hour later, when sleep still resists him, he deletes the message.

 

==

 

"And last summer, we went to Nice with one of Mum's friends." Tess hops over a crack in the sidewalk, her wavy hair bouncing. "The ocean looked different there, because at home, it's all choppy. Like when the ship sinks in _Frozen_ , but colder."

"Is every child in the world obsessed with that movie?" Tony grumbles, and Tess grins at him as she veers off path and into the grass. She purposely stomps on a few big leaves, crunching them under her sneakers, and Tony frowns as he trails behind her. "You know your mother'll kill me if I lose you in the woods, right?" he asks. "Because I'm supposed to be walking you home from tumbling, not—"

Tess wrinkles her nose. "We're going to the swings," she replies, and in that second, she sounds almost exactly like Maya. "I want to talk to you, but every time you come over, Mum stands in the kitchen and watches." She pauses, rolling her lips together. "And asks me questions later. About you, and if I like you."

"Sounds familiar," Tony murmurs, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. They watch one another for a couple seconds, the wind ruffling the ends of Tess's dress and scarf, before he shrugs. "Swings, Spanish inquisition, and home before dark. With emphasis on that last part, because winter's coming."

Tess cocks her head to the side. "Like the boy on Mum's favorite show says?" she asks.

He barely restrains his cackle. "You and Miles are _definitely_ siblings," he assesses, and she beams as she darts toward the swings.

Tony mimes trying to catch her, and she giggles, her voice echoing through the empty park. Since Halloween, he's felt adrift in an endless sea of responsibilities (school projects and briefs and home repair, oh my!), but this hour-long break with Tess feels like a glimmer of sunlight peeking through a cloudy sky. The eye of the hurricane, he thinks, watching Tess claim a swing. A chance to steel himself against the next looming disaster.

"You know I'm a little tall for swings, right?" he asks, and his knees almost collide with his chest as he settles in next to Tess. "Unless you planned on embarrassing me. Maybe hired a team to record me and put me on the internet?"

He glances over his shoulder, playfully paranoid, and Tess laughs until her cheeks flare pink. "I just like swings," she says, swaying slightly. "Amy and I talk on the swings at recess. Nobody bothers us. Like we're the only ones there, even if other people are swinging."

The comment digs claws into the softest part of his heart, and he fights to breathe around it. "You like Amy a lot, don't you?"

Tess nods. "She was the first person to be nice to me at my new school," she says, digging her toe into the woodchips. "Mum said it'd be hard to make new friends, but even though Amy was really quiet, I knew she liked me. Even if Dot kind of scared me." He snorts a laugh, and she tips her head at him. "Where's Amy's mum? Did she move away?"

All of a sudden, Tony's stomach dips like he's riding a rollercoaster; when he glances at the ground, he almost expects to lose his lunch. Instead, he swallows thickly, his lips pursed. "You should really ask Amy," he answers.

Tess immediately dips her head. "She won't tell me. She says it's sad. Same as when I asked about her brothers and their parents."

"Well, according to the pile of paperwork at home, Miles's stuck with Bruce and me. No other parents required." She frowns at the ground, her brow bunching, and Tony sighs. "Amy's mom, she— Okay. You know how, back in the day, I had all kinds of problems? Like we talked about, the first couple times we met?"

Tess steals a sideways glance in his direction. "Yeah."

"Amy's mom, she has some of the same troubles. And lots of people tried to help her, but not everybody bounces back the same way as me. Really, I lucked out in that department." She nods unevenly, her eyes never straying from his face. They're dark, but kind. Like Bruce's eyes, Tony thinks, and drags fingers through his hair. "Amy still sees her mom every other week," he says. "They play games or go to Mass, usually. And even when we adopt Amy, we'll still let her visit her mom if she wants."

"But they won't live together?" Tess asks.

He shakes his head. "Not anymore, no. She'll live with us and Miles. And Teddy, until he leaves for college."

Tess's head bobs—the universal sign of a kid trying to digest a ton of new information—and she loses a couple minutes to actually swinging, her feet dangling off the ground. She's graceful, like a dancer, and Tony wonders whether Maya ever tried ballet as a kid.

Except a second later, he remembers his mother, barefoot and laughing as they ballroom danced in their pajamas, and something in his chest just aches.

"What about me?" Tess asks, jerking Tony out of his little genetic analysis. He blinks at her, confused, and she bites her bottom lip. "I'm still going to live with Mum, right? Even after we all know each other."

"Uh," he says weakly, and right away, her brow furrows. He reaches out, ready to smooth the wrinkle away, but she snorts and dodges his touch. Smiles, too, flashing her missing bottom tooth and her dimple, and Tony falls a tiny bit in love. "We'll need to talk about it," he admits, shrugging. "Your mom, me, you, Bruce— We'll all need to sit down and work out a game plan. Especially if you want to spend the night sometimes."

Her face instantly brightens. "Like a sleepover with Amy?" she asks.

"More like a sleepover with all of us, but I'm glad to see where your loyalties lie," he replies, and Tess squeals when he tickles her side.

 

==

 

Two nights later, Tony wakes up to a scream.

His blood curdles as he rockets up out of a dead sleep, kicking away the tangled sheets and struggling, his heart pounding to slid out of bed. By the time his feet hit the floor, Bruce's already beside him, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. They stare eat each other for a moment, dazed and confused by their shared terror, and silence sweeps in around them.

At least, until a second scream spurs them both back into action.

The screams sound more like sobs as they skid into Amy's room—Tony still struggling with his sweatpants while the sash from Bruce's robe trails on the floor—and Tony watches as she burrows deeper into her cocoon of blankets. She's red-faced and shaking, shuddering through the worst of her dream, but when Tony drops to his knees to smooth her hair, she jerks away, one hand shooting out to slap at him. He reaches for her again, his desperate need to calm her overriding every one of his higher brain functions.

Bruce plants a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Let her cry it out, remember?" he asks, his voice low and surprisingly soothing considering the circumstances. "She needs to wake up on her own."

Tony nods, but not without his stomach twisting into nauseating knots. For the last six months, maybe longer, Amy's run the gambit of every bad dream known to man—falling off a cliff, showing up naked to school, losing all her teeth, chased by wolves—but somehow, she's avoided any night terrors. Until tonight, at least, and watching her claw at the blankets while she cries—

Tony rubs a hand over his face, tries to chase the exhausting away.

Seeing his kid like this pretty much breaks his heart.

From the way Bruce squeezes his shoulder, the human equivalent of a sick cat kneading a blanket, Tony knows he feels the exact same way.

Amy gasps and jerks awake about a minute later, jolting upright despite the literal pile of blankets tucked in around her. She swivels to stare at them, her bleary eyes blinking uncomprehendingly for a couple seconds, but as soon as she recognizes them, she bursts into tears all over again. 

"Dad," she says, the word trembling as hard as the rest of her, and reaches for Bruce.

And proving his mettle as three-time father of the year, Bruce hides his split second of surprise by sinking down onto the bed and gathering her up in his arms.

Between the bundle of blankets and the way she hides her face in her dad's neck, Amy looks a lot more like a toddler than an occasionally sassy second-grader, and Tony tries hard to ignore the way his heart drops as he joins them on the bed. She flinches a little when he strokes her back the first time, but she relaxes into the touch when Bruce shushes her. He kisses her forehead and her hair, rocks her gently while murmuring reassurances, and for one heart-stopping second, Tony regrets never handing his husband an infant.

Just for that one second, though.

Because after that, he's brushing the sweat-sticky curls off the back of Amy's neck and rubbing her still-shaking shoulders.

"I dreamed you liked her better," Amy murmurs after long enough, the words trapped between helpless little snuffles. "You didn't want to be with us anymore. You just wanted to be with her, and we never saw you again."

Bruce hikes her up a little higher on his lap, a failed attempt to glimpse at her still-hidden face. "Who, sweetie? Me?"

Amy shakes her head. "Not you. Tony. With Tess."

Tony's hand stills without his permission, a flash of cold coursing through his body like the worst kind of electric shock. Worse, Bruce stills along with him, and even in the near-dark, Tony spots the way the color drains from his face. When he raises his head to look over— _really_ look, no half-measures or stolen glances—Tony swears he forgets how to breathe.

Because written on Bruce's face in that moment is every emotion Tony's feared over the last several weeks: hurt, helplessness, isolation, and, worst of all, fear.

He blinks away the last one, ducking his head just a second later, but Tony's already swallowing around the thick feeling in the back of his throat. His chest and belly feel tight, like the slowly tightening fist of a panic attack, and he works hard to keep his breaths steady. He rubs Amy's back again, slower this time, and ignores how clammy his hands feel.

Bruce steals a sidelong glance, his lips pressed together.

And for the first time in their marriage, Tony just watches him, completely clueless on how to break the sudden, impenetrable silence.

Amy snuffles again, a welcome distraction from the black hole opening up in the pit of Tony's stomach, and Bruce rests his cheek on her disastrous bedhead. "You know what you need?"

"Hot chocolate and a story?"

Bruce snorts, but his mouth tips into an irresistible smile. "I was going to suggest we camp out on the couch, but if all you need is a little hot chocolate . . . " He pokes her in the side, inspiring a little squirm and an almost-laugh. "What do you think? A couple chapters of Lemony Snicket?"

She peeks out from his neck. "With tiny marshmallows?" she needles.

"Maybe a few," he acquiesces, and she actually grins as she wriggles out of his lap.

Tony hangs back as they head out of the bedroom, watching as Amy wraps both her hands around Bruce's arm and sags into him, leeching his heat. Or his strength, Tony amends, thinking of the way his husband'd bundled up that little girl and clung to her like their lives depended on it. In that moment, he feels a little like a kid with his nose pressed to the window of a candy store, desperate for all the sweets inside.

Or like a younger version of himself, the guy who'd parked outside Steve Rogers's apartment building before their first-ever Thanksgiving together and seriously considered running from the promise of warm lights and easy laughter.

For the last couple years, Tony'd felt he'd deserved that warmth, the family life he'd never really experienced.

Now, sitting in the dark, he imagines the hurt on Bruce's face and thinks maybe he's still that guy who almost ran from a bright window and a burlap door wreath.

When he finally drags himself out of Amy's room, his hair messy from running fingers through it, he discovers Miles sitting at the top of the stairs, his elbows on his thighs. Even though the gentle sound of Bruce and Amy's conversation barely covers his breathing, let alone his bare feet on the wood floor, Miles never glances back over his shoulder. Like a gargoyle in Ninja Turtles pajama pants, Tony thinks, and he nudges Miles's leg before plopping down next to him.

Miles picks at a hangnail for a couple seconds before asking, "Amy okay?"

Tony nods. "Just one of her night terrors. Nothing to write home about, if you ignore the air-raid screams." His kid snorts a little, rolling his eyes, and Tony knocks their shoulders together. "What about you?" he asks. "Not that I expected you to sleep through all that—pretty sure Barton couldn't sleep through that, and that guy once passed out in a lawn chair during a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza—but you usually head straight back to bed and just complain in the morning."

Instead of treating Tony to one of his usual teenage sighs, Miles shrugs. "I guess I didn't feel like going back to sleep."

"Fair enough," Tony says, and Miles nods a little before returning to his hangnail. They linger that way for a couple minutes, their arms brushing as they listen to the gentle lilt of Bruce's reading voice drifts up the stairs. Finally, Tony rolls his lips together and asks, "You want some company?"

Miles glances over at him. "Sure, why not?" he answers, and Tony nudges him until he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new tumblr-only side project: "The MPU Presents: Overheard in Suffolk County." There's only one miniature story so far, but there will be one every Sunday from here until I run out of ideas. And as you all know: I never run out of ideas. You can read them [here.](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/tagged/mpu-presents%3A-overheard-in-suffolk-county)


	10. Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, an incident at school helps refocus Tony's attention to his family. Well, mostly. Hopefully? Tony's trying, desperately, to be the best husband and father to everyone he loves. His success rate's a little different story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** This chapter contains a brief, vague reference to teenage drug use.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. I assure you, they want the next chapter just as badly as all of you.

"I hate calling you in on such short notice," Assistant Principal Hoffman says, "but we're all a little worried at this point."

Bruce nods, his concerned parent face stiffening, and Tony rolls his lips together as he glances around the office. The place reminds him of a set piece from one of those old teen movies, full of dusty bookcases, slowly rusting file cabinets, and shitty drapes that yellowed with age at least a decade ago. Even worse, awards hang all over the place, a memorial to Assistant Principal Hoffman's apparent greatness. Educator of the Year, Administrator of the Year, Golden Apple Award, The National Institute of _Something_ Silver Star Award— Every last one declares Lynda-with-a-Y Hoffman to be a cream-of-the-crop educator, the kind of woman you want ruling a middle school with an iron fist.

Plus, she carries herself like a prize fighter, the kind of woman who'd beat Tony to a pulp without breaking a sweat.

He sits up a little straighter, just on principle.

Bruce, apparently unintimidated by women capable of advanced hand-to-hand combat, just raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, but I'm still not clear about—"

"Part of the way through third period, one of our sixth graders came into the front office," Hoffman explains, folding her hands on her desk. "He said that someone blocked off the door to the boy's bathroom down by the auditorium. When Mister Quill investigated, he found that three of our eighth graders had skipped art class and barricaded the door. Miles was with them." 

Tony rolls his eyes. "Skipping class is—"

"They were rolling a joint when he walked in."

Hoffman keeps her tone perfectly steady, a surgeon sharing bad news after a difficult procedure, but the shock still hits Tony right in the stomach. He flops back in his chair a little, his hand scratching through his goatee almost involuntarily. Because while tons of kids smoke pot (including Tony and Rhodey, back in their wild and crazy college days), _his_ kid never—

"Now, Miles immediately said that he doesn't smoke," Hoffman continues, her voice still completely neutral, "and the other boys all backed him. Sounds like he just wanted to cut class, and I'm not holding him guilty by association." Bruce nods, his shoulders loosening slightly, and Tony exhales a little. "But like I said over the phone, this behavior's really out of character for Miles. He usually stops short at outwardly thumbing his nose at the rules, and I worry that his new friends—"

"New?" Bruce shoots Tony a sideways glance, his lips still pursed in a concerned little frown, but Tony immediately waves him off. "I don't know if you're mixing our kid up with one of the other bathroom miscreants, but we can pretty much count Miles's school friends on one hand. Ganke, Briana, Judge, that girl with the beanie—"

"Lana," Bruce supplies.

"See? That's a firmly established core group of friends, right there." Tony jabs a thumb at his husband, who shakes his head. "We know the kids he runs around with, and while they're a little high-maintenance, they're not _new_."

For the first time since she'd greeted them out in the lobby, Hoffman's expression softens. She studies them for a second, her gaze tipping to the wrong side of cautious, and Tony feels himself bracing for impact. "I don't know who Miles spends time with outside of school," she says after a few seconds, "but here, they run in completely different circles. I can't tell you the last time I saw your son with Ganke Lee, never mind the other students you just named." 

Something like dread immediately creeps across Bruce's face, a perfect companion with the sinking feeling in the pit of Tony's stomach. He sits and stares at Hoffman for a second before blurting, "But they're best friends."

She smiles sadly. "Not here, unfortunately."

A knock at the door interrupts them in that second—not, of course, that Tony knows exactly how to respond to this new revelation. No, instead of arguing with the assistant principal (or, worse, demanding to know what kind of circus she runs), he just studies one of the awards on her desk and lets his mind run wild. In the weeks since Maya crashed back into his life, bouncing elementary-aged daughter along for the ride, he's needled Miles about his sullen silences and disinterested attitude, but always to no avail. Now, as Hoffman chats with her secretary, Tony wonders if he'd missed some important sign—or worse, just failed to ask the right question.

He almost says as much to his husband, but when he glances over, he discovers Bruce staring at his hands and twisting his wedding band around. A nervous habit, Tony knows, but one that always tightens his throat. 

Because Bruce only ever saves _that_ habit for when he feels like the ceiling's about to fall down around them.

"We'll be suspending Miles for the rest of the week," Hoffman says when her secretary disappears, her arms resting on the desk again. "When he comes back, I'd like him to see the counselor. I know he attends some kind of group therapy outside of school, but I think he'll benefit from the added support." Bruce nods, his head still tipped down at his lap as Hoffman glances between them. "And if you all need added support at home—"

"No, we're good at home." Bruce jerks his head up at that, but Tony just shrugs off his surprise and shakes his head. "I mean, we'll work on figuring out what's going on with Miles, but as a unit, we're totally fine."

Hoffman nods, her smile trying and failing to reach her eyes. "Well, if that changes, we can certainly recommend some resources. Now, if you'll give me a couple minutes, I'll go collect Miles."

They sit in relative silence as she walks out of the room, but the second she closes the door behind her, Tony rockets out of his seat like a kid hopped up on leftover Halloween candy. Nervous energy, he thinks, or maybe just the way Bruce tracks him around the room, the surprise from earlier transitioning into something sharper.

When he fails to say anything, though, Tony pokes the sad-looking fern drooping on the nearest file cabinet. "I think the second he walks in here, we should—"

"Did you even talk to him?" Bruce interrupts, and something in his tone sends a shiver up Tony's spine. He rolls his lips together instead of answering right away, his attention still focused on the pathetic plant, and Bruce sighs. "No, of course not. You poked him, joked around until he laughed, but in terms of actually talking—" 

"Well, for one, I said we sat together. No talking implied." Bruce huffs out a breath, clearly annoyed, and Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, big guy, I'm just as worried about the brooding silences as you are. But short of shooting him up with some truth serum, I don't know—"

"Right. Because you think everything's fine." 

The words slice right through Tony, the rough edge of a jagged blade, and he whips around just in time to watch Bruce pinch the bridge of his nose. For a second, neither of them moves, trapped in opposite corners by the elephant in the room. 

Finally, though, his husband drops his hands into his lap. "I know you don't believe it," he murmurs, "but when you pretend like we're all hanging in there, all bravely soldiering through this great big sea change, I . . . "

He trails off with a shake of his head, and Tony feels his heart drop into his stomach. "Bruce, I didn't—"

"You crack jokes," he presses, and suddenly, he sounds like he's a million miles away. "You bandage over every wound with ice cream and hugs. But every time we turn around, you're in your own head or, worse, visiting Maya." Tony flinches involuntarily, but Bruce just exhales. "And every time you do, our kids fall a little further apart."

Tony rolls his lips together. "They're okay," he says. "They're just, you know, dealing with the normal growing pains. Like swimming against the current, or whatever."

"Except we both know that's not true." He shakes his head again, almost like he plans on clearing out all the cobwebs, and Tony watches as he scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be unfair. It's just that between all this and the termination of parental rights trial I'm handling next week—"

"The shaken baby, right?" Tony asks, wandering back over to his chair. "He's in the hospital, his siblings with some cousins?"

Bruce's brow tightens, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly as he peers at Tony out of the corner of his eye. "I finished that trial two weeks ago. I'm on the dad who sexually abused his daughter, now." Tony grinds his teeth together to keep from cringing, but Bruce just glances back down at his hands. "We're trying, Tony, but . . . It's too much. No matter how much we want to support you, with or without Tess, the last few weeks've just—"

The door creaks open, shattering the moment into a thousand tiny pieces. Bruce sits up immediately, his shoulders tightening like he's about to face a stiff wind, and they both glance over just as Miles slinks into the office. He's dressed in his usual slouchy jeans and a _Star Wars_ t-shirt, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his whole body slumped. Like he plans on wilting from exhaustion, Tony thinks, and something in his chest tightens.

More to the point, he ducks his head to avoid eye contact, and Hoffman pats him on the shoulder. "I'm going to let you all talk for a minute, if that's okay."

Miles snorts. "You don't need to. They're not going to rip me a new one while you're waiting outside."

She smiles. "That's why I'm giving you a minute," she informs him, and squeezes his shoulder as she steps out of the room.

Miles flops back against the wall the second she leaves, his head tipping up toward the ceiling, and for a long, tense moment, nobody speaks. Nobody breathes, really, separated by a good six feet of distance and the rollercoaster of the last few weeks. A school bell rings faintly in the distance to signal the end of a class period, Hoffman's intercom chirps and falls silent, and still, they all just _wait_.

Finally, though, the quiet creeps under Tony's skin, an itch he can't really reach, and he shakes his head. "What's going on?" he asks.

Miles rolls his eyes. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Tony immediately hates the accusatory edge to his own tone, but that definitely doesn't stop him from throwing up his hands. "You cut class. You're not talking to us. You're not talking to your normal friends, apparently, and I know your brother's keeping at least a couple of your secrets. So either you're planning us the greatest anniversary party known to man, or something's—"

"Since when do you even care?" 

The sharp snap of Miles's voice slaps Tony right across the face. He reels back a little bit, mostly from the shock of his kid nearly yelling at him. Bruce, on the other hand, just rolls his lips together. "Miles—"

"You wanna know why I cut class?" his kid presses. "Because I felt like it. Because Darius and his crew are cool, which I can't say about anybody I know except for maybe America, and they actually noticed me. You know, unlike everybody else in the freaking world." He shakes his head, the disappointment rolling off him in waves. "And since I don't even smoke—"

"We're not worried about the smoking," Bruce says, his expression and tone both almost unbearably soft. "And deep down, you know that."

Miles snorts, but when he glances over at his dad, all the fight just sort of seeps out of him. He deflates, his shoulders slumping, and drops his gaze to the floor again. "Yeah," he murmurs.

"And even if you don't want to talk to us—"

"I don't want to talk to _anybody_ , Dad. I—" The word catches in the back of his throat, sticky in that fundamentally teenage way, and he cuts himself off with a sharp shake of his head. "I know you like talking stuff through," he says after a beat, "but not everything ends up better when you say it out loud. You know?"

Bruce flicks his eyes over in Tony's direction, and for a split second, the whole rest of the world drops away, leaving them alone in the room with the giant chasm of that other conversation stretched out between them. Tony fights against the lump in his throat, trying to figure out some way to bridge the gap, but the words never quite assemble together.

Finally, his husband sighs. "I know," he says, looking back over at their kid. "You want to go home?"

Miles shrugs. "Sure."

"You know," Tony says as they head out through the lobby, Miles skulking a good ten feet behind them, "I'm not as swamped as usual. If you want me to take the afternoon off, spend some quality time with the kid, I'm game."

Bruce's smile never quite reaches his eyes. "We'll figure it out," he replies, and right away, Tony knows the answer. 

 

==

 

"Here's the million-dollar question: how do we fix it?"

The house always feels massive after the kids head to bed, one of those old, rambling countryside castles where not even the ghosts lurk in the hallways anymore. Without the usual hustle and bustle of the day filling up all the empty corners, every footstep echoes ominously, and Tony swears he spots unfamiliar shadows in every corner. In those moments, the house reminds him of a crypt or one of those perfectly preserved houses in Pompeii, a resting place for his former life.

Bruce helps, naturally, but not even the coffee table full of case files and the mostly empty cup of tea at his feet chase away the little twinge of abandonment that lives in the pit of Tony's stomach.

Worse, Bruce hums instead of actually answering Tony's question, his nose buried in a social work report. Most of the page's covered in notes and highlighter marks, a testament to Bruce's scattered work ethic, and the rush of fondness that sweeps through Tony almost overwhelms him. He smiles, his better instincts absolutely failing him, and he only just resists the urge to tangle fingers in his husband's hair and kiss him breathless.

Instead, he walks over and balances a fresh cup of tea in the middle of the case file chaos. A peace offering, really, and Bruce immediately raises his eyebrows. They stare one another down as Tony sinks onto the couch, his coffee mug cradled between his hands. For a minute, they just watch each other, the silence broken only by the familiar grumble of the furnace.

Finally, though, Tony draws in a breath. "You said that everything we're going through right now, it's too much," he says, picking at the lip of his mug. "And even though I knew that—or, at least, thought I knew that—I'm realizing that I dropped the ball a little. Meaning that, right now, I want you to tell me how to fix it."

Confusion flits across Bruce's face for a second, but he hides it by ducking his face away. "I didn't mean—" 

"Yeah, you did." He rolls his lips together, not arguing, and Tony shrugs. "You said it, and you were right. Are right, technically, since nothing's changed in the last ten hours. And while I'm pretty used to treating you as the gold standard of rightness in this family—" Bruce flicks him a warning look, and he raises his hands. "All jokes aside," he presses, "you're right, and I'm— I don't know what I am right now, Bruce, but I think I need to be something else."

Bruce nods, his expression still soft and a little unreadable, and this time, the quiet between them almost chokes the breath right out of Tony. He fights hard against it, sipping his coffee and focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, but the longer Bruce stares at the steam rising out of his mug, the more Tony's chest tightens.

After a few more seconds, Bruce sighs. "You want to get to know her," he murmurs. "None of us blame you for that. We couldn't. But the more time you spend with her, the more the other kids think you're drifting away. And I . . . "

He trails off with a shake of his head, and Tony raises his eyebrows. "What about you?"

Bruce snorts. "I'm not an insecure teenager, Tony."

"Funnily enough, that's not what I asked."

Bruce huffs out another little breath, his hand curling tightly against his coffee mug, but Tony knows without a second thought that Bruce is really just _thinking_. Working his way to a decision, actually, and he squares his shoulders as he draws in a breath. "Have you asked Maya for a paternity test?"

The question body-slams Tony like a freight train, but he still shakes his head. "No."

He expects Bruce to argue—to throw up his hands, storm away from the couch, abandon this whole conversation to his monumental temper—but instead, his whole body just softens. A sign of resignation, Tony thinks, and he swallows hard around his guilt when Bruce nods. 

"I want you to have this," he says after a few seconds, his eyes studying Tony's hands more than anything else. "And if the roles were reversed, I know without a doubt that you'd give me the same opportunity. You'd support me, even when I wouldn't deserve it, because that's just _you_. But—" He pauses, his voice catching slightly. "We still need you, Tony. All four of us. Even Teddy, and even me."

"You have me," Tony replies without even pausing for breath. "You've never _not_ had me, and even with everything else—"

"We have you when you're not focusing on Tess," Bruce interrupts, and Tony immediately purses his lips. "When you're not worrying about being her dad—or worse, failing her as a dad—it's fine. _You're_ fine. But the rest of the time, when you're obsessing about them . . . " Bruce shakes his head. "Tony, that's the part that's too much."

The words settle somewhere between Tony's chest and stomach, a lead weight that threatens to pin him to the couch (or, worse, drag him even lower), and for a couple minutes, he just sits there. Because even though he wants to protest, he knows that Bruce's right. Not just about the emotional distance, either, but about the anguish he feels over Tess—and, more importantly, over seven years of lost time.

He remembers feeling that kind of anguish over Bruce, back when he fell in love hard enough that he thought he'd never emerge intact, never mind convince the guy to love him back.

Bruce startles a little when Tony ditches his mug on the coffee table, and his eyes stay wide as Tony reaches forward to grab his hands. Tony tangles their fingers together before he dares to meet his husband's gaze. "Done," he says.

Bruce blinks at him. "What?"

"You need me to refocus on you and the kids, right?" Tony asks. "Consider it done. Signed, sealed, delivered, whatever you need."

Bruce shakes his head. "Tony, it's not—"

"Big guy, please, listen to me." Tony squeezes his fingers, a gentle attempt to ground Bruce to the current reality—and, more importantly, to the conversation. Bruce rolls his lips together, but somehow, he still meets Tony's eyes. "I'm serious. About all of this."

For some reason, Bruce finally cracks a tiny smile. "That's the problem," he says. "You always are." The reluctance in his tone catches Tony off-guard a little, another couple grains of salt in the already-fresh wound, but Bruce at least sighs when he flinches. "I know you mean well, Tony, but to just switch it off—"

"Not all the way off. Just, I don't know, paused." Bruce cocks his head slightly, less from confusion than from doubt, and Tony tugs at his hands. "Tess and Maya aren't going anywhere. More than that, they're kind of used to life without me. Push comes to shove, they can wait a little longer." When Bruce purses his lips, Tony bumps their knees together. "They can wait for me," he says again, a little more insistently. "You guys can't."

Bruce snorts, sure, but the tension in his shoulders uncoils. "Just like that?" he asks. He sounds, well, painfully hopeful.

Tony smiles. "Married you the same way, didn't I?" he teases, and Bruce rolls his eyes. Still, he lets Tony reel him in. Not for a kiss, of course—that feels wrong in this moment, like a bridge too far—but to press their foreheads together. "Let me be better, Bruce," he murmurs as his husband closes his eyes. "Please. Before we transition from 'somewhat shitty' to 'completely not good.'"

"You've never not been good," Bruce says, his voice almost a whisper.

Tony huffs out a hard breath. "You're a terrible liar," he retorts, and basks in Bruce's chuckle.

 

==

 

"And," Tess says, beaming, "I got all the math questions right!"

"Hey, good for you!" Tony praises, grinning back. Tess blushes a little, her face pinker than usual thanks to the terrible image quality of their Facetime session, and drops her eyes away from the camera. "How'd the spelling test go? Because according to Amy, this week's words are pretty—"

"I'm good at words," she immediately defends, but this time, her voice wobbles. He frowns at the screen as she tucks her hair behind her ear. "Can I ask you a question? Mum told me not to, but . . . "

Tony raises an eyebrow. "You're all about fibbing to your mom lately, aren't you?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I'm not lying. I'm just not telling her everything." When he shoots her a knowing glance (tried and tested with his other children, naturally), she huffs out a hard breath. "I want to know why you aren't coming to visit me," she says. "Since you're calling every day but can't even come over for a little while."

She peeks up at him at the end, her gaze piercing even behind the curtains of her dark hair, and Tony rolls his lips together instead of answering. Outside, the rain batters against his office window, an autumn storm that almost perfectly matches his mood; all around him, cases teeter on just about every surface, a reminder of how desperately he needs to actually work. But no matter how many fresh bullet points he adds to his (already interminable) to-do list, he still feels about six months behind schedule.

Six months and thirteen minutes, the current length of today's Facetime call.

Finally, though, he stops drumming his fingers against his leg long enough to shrug. "It's complicated," he says.

She huffs out a breath. "You sound like Mum."

"Yeah, well, your mom's a smart lady," Tony retorts. "You should probably listen to her."

"She's not smart about you," Tess fires back, and the sharpness in her tone leaves Tony reeling. They stare at each other for a second, separated by at least two zip codes but still connected by the wonders of the internet, but after a minute, she bites her lower lip. "I did something bad, didn't I?" she asks, and right away, Tony's heart drops into his stomach. "You wanted to like me, but I did it wrong, and now—"

"Hey, wait, no," he cuts in, and her sentence devolves into a sniffle. He leans in closer to the phone, a sorry excuse for actual eye contact, and drags his fingers through his hair. "Tess, sometimes, it's just—" She steals another glance at him, her eyes obviously damp, and Tony sighs. "Think about it this way, okay? You know how you worked extra hard at your math problems because they're hard for you?"

Tess nods. "Yeah."

"Well, right now, things are hard at my house. Not because of you," he adds, holding up a hand, "but just because of everything. School, work, life, you name it. And until everybody's feeling a little better, it's important—" 

A loud knock at the door breaks into the conversation, and Tony swings his chair around just in time for Rhodey to pop his head in the door. "You wanted to—" he starts, but he stops short when he realizes that Tony's holding his phone while wearing his Bluetooth. He raises an eyebrow. "You need a minute?"

"Just the one," Tony promises, and Rhodey nods before ducking out back into the hallway. He leaves the door partially open, though, and Tony stares at it for a couple seconds before he drops his eyes back down to the phone. "I gotta go, kiddo," he says, his voice low. "Time for me to defend the constitution or whatever."

Tess nods unevenly, her hair falling in her face. "Can I talk to you tomorrow?" she asks.

"Maybe," he answers, and he winks at her before ending the call.

"For the record, I didn't _mean_ to call my urologist the exact second you showed up to talk," he says when Rhodey reappears a minute later, "but as usual, your timing's impeccable." Rhodey snorts at him, his mouth dangerously close to a smile, and Tony gestures to one of his visitor's chairs. "Sit down, put your feet up on a box of transcripts. You want coffee? Maria whipped up the kind of sludge that'll erode your esophagus, so—"

Rhodey rolls his eyes. "You must really wanna talk to me if you're advertising Maria's coffee skills."

"Or I'm just afraid it'll eat through the pot and create some sort of biohazard," Tony fires back. His friend chuckles and shakes his head—typical Rhodey fare, really—and he tips back in his seat. "So, how've you been? Good? Carol treating you okay, or we need another shovel talk?"

"The fact you think you're capable of intimidating my girlfriend's actually kinda adorable." Tony wrinkles his nose, about ready to argue, but his buddy holds up a hand. "And before you start telling me how you're the only man capable of defending my virtue or something like that," he presses, "lemme remind you that you're the one who asked me to come up here. Marked the e-mail 'priority' and everything."

Tony shrugs. "Last Outlook update moved all the buttons around. You're lucky I'm not sending read receipts all over the place." Rhodey cocks an eyebrow, and Tony holds up his hands. "What? I'm old. Technology confuses me."

"And since you lying through your teeth confuses me," Rhodey counters, "we're right around even." Tony snorts at him, almost rolling his eyes, but Rhodey pins him with a look. Same as twenty years ago, really, only without anybody sobbing into a plastic cup of warm beer. 

They stare each other down for a long time before Tony shakes his head. "I need to talk to you about Miles," he admits.

To his credit, Rhodey just blinks at him. "Please tell me I did not just hear you right."

Tony sighs. "Rhodes, look, I—"

"No, Tony, _you_ look," Rhodey interrupts, raising a hand. "I did not agree to hang out with your kid a couple times a month to feed you information. That's not how this works. Because if I can't offer him a safe space—"

"Who died and turned you into a social worker?" Tony snaps, and the glare Rhodey shoots across the desk threatens to light him on fire. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to chase away the exhaustion of the last few days. "I'm not saying you need to spill, like, everything," he clarifies as his friend's jaw clenches. "I just need to know enough that I'm not worried about him all the time."

Rhodey crosses his arms. "You know the easiest way to clear that up, right?" he challenges.

"You think I haven't tried talking to him?"

"I don't know, have you?" Something about Rhodey's tone slices right through him, sharper than any knife Tony's ever come up against, and he glances away without really thinking about it. Across the desk, though, the other man just sighs. "Your kid's going through an identity crisis, Tone," he says, his voice soft. "Nobody to blame except puberty and the asshole who killed his parents that night, you know? And even though you mean well, a five-minute joke session's not gonna fix everything he's working through. He needs a real sit down. No distractions, no games." He waits, thanks mostly to his impossible patience, for Tony to glance over at him. "No Tess."

Tony nods, but as much as he tries to drum up some kind of response, nothing ever comes. Instead he sits there, cornered by his friend's impenetrable gaze and, more to the point, his _rightness_. Because as much as Tony wants to defend his parenting against Rhodey's raised eyebrows and all-knowing head-tilt, he can't. 

Not today.

The silence apparently drags on a little longer than necessary, too, because Rhodey leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "How's the Tess stuff all going, anyway?" he asks. "You good? The family good?"

Tony shrugs. "We're okay."

"Actually okay, or—"

"Normal okay. The kind of okay you don't bother writing home about, even if it includes bonding with the daughter you never realized you had." Rhodey snorts a little, and Tony tilts his head back until he's staring at the ceiling. "At least, that's my story for right now. Normal okay and plugging right along."

"Meaning that nothing's okay and you're a mess, since I'm pretty good at translating your bullshit into normal human speech." Tony rolls his eyes at that, almost smiling, but he feels Rhodey's eyes on him, perpetually staring him down. "You don't need to lie to me. You know that, right? Whatever's going on, we can talk about it. Work it out, especially if stuff with you and Bruce isn't—"

"I'm not my fourteen-year-old kid, Rhodes. I don't need a sounding board." He scowls at that, his whole face crumpling, and Tony shakes his head. "We're working through all of it," he admits, purposefully focusing his attention on the ceiling instead of on his friend's worried face. "We have a plan, a whole way of approaching this whole mess. It's just . . . "

The words escape like a balloon deflating, and he rubs a hand over his face instead of finishing the sentence. When he looks back over, Rhodey's still watching him, this time with a painfully sympathetic smile. "I think the word you're looking for is 'lonely,' Tony."

"Or just hard," Tony retorts, and he hates right down to his toes how defensive he sounds. Rhodey raises his eyebrows, obviously hearing the exact same thing, and Tony waves a hand at him. "We'll get there," he says, mostly for his own sake. "Uphill battle or not. We're good at beating the odds, you know?"

His buddy rolls his lips together. "Tony—"

"We'll get there," Tony insists, and he swivels his chair over to his computer rather than leave room for any kind of argument.

 

==

 

"Come on," Amy encourages. Goads, really, her face bright as she drums her hands on her thighs. "You're good at walking! Come here!"

She stretches out her arms, her fingers wriggling, and P.J. Barton peers at her. The toddler equivalent of narrowing your eyes in distrust, Tony thinks, and complete with a tiny baby frown. Still, he clings to Tony's pants as he deliberates, occasionally swaying a little when Tony bounces his leg.

"If he falls over, you're soothing him," Bruce warns, his nose buried in his book.

Tony snorts. "Yeah, because you'd _really_ trust me with a crying infant," he retorts, and Bruce rolls his eyes.

P.J. readjusts his footing, his grip loosening, and Amy grins as she claps her hands. "Like that," she cheers, showing him her palms. "Just a couple steps, and you'll be here. With the _book_."

She points at her latest library selection, a brightly colored retelling of _Rapunzel_ , and P.J. eyes it curiously. "Buhk."

"Yeah, the book." She props it up against one of her knees. "We'll read the book if you come get me."

P.J.'s brow crinkles, and Amy flashes him a hopeful smile. At least, until the kid twists to glance at Tony. "Uh," he says, raising both hands.

Bruce snickers behind his book, and Tony sighs. "I really don't know why you like me," he grumbles, but he still sweeps the baby up into his lap.

Amy groans in defeat and flops back onto the carpet, and Bruce chuckles as both dogs bound over to shove their noses in her face. She squeals and wriggles, playfully shoving them away, and by the time they wander off, P.J.'s clapping and laughing from Tony's lap. On the far end of the couch, Teddy cranks up his music just loud enough that Tony recognizes it as early-days Rhianna.

Just a normal night in their household, really.

Well, aside from the tiny interloper snuggling against Tony's chest.

"You know I don't like you, right?" he asks after P.J. sighs contentedly. "Like, I'll happily hang out with you in another couple years. Help your parents with whatever legally distinct, queer-friendly Boy Scout Troop they enroll you in. But right _now_ , you're—"

A tiny hand smacks him in the mouth, hard, and he jerks back a little. "Ta _shhh_ ," P.J. shushes him, sounding mostly like a leaky balloon. "Go _shhh_."

Bruce chokes on a laugh. "I never knew toddlers could read my mind," he says, barely glancing up from his book.

Tony jabs a finger at him. "You're lucky you're handsome," he accuses, and Bruce grins when P.J. smacks him again.

When Amy fully recovers from being shunned by a fourteen-month-old Barton (the worst of all affronts, really), she clambers up onto the couch with her book in tow. The second she cracks it open, P.J. shifts around to admire the pictures, and that's exactly how Clint discovers them when he literally strolls into their house unannounced: Amy struggling with the word "wandering" while P.J. gazes at her like she hung the moon. 

In fact, the kid only notices his almost-dad when a hand ruffles his hair, and even then, he jabs his finger at the book. "Buhk!" he announces, grinning at Clint. "Ah _buhk_!"

Clint snorts. "You sure Barney didn't find you under a rock or something? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you're not related to us." P.J. scrambles to his feet, nearly grinding his heel into the most delicate part of Tony's anatomy, and Clint hoists him up over the back of the couch. "You cuddling with your favorite person? We gonna tell Phil when he's home tomorrow, make him jealous?"

P.J. flops against Clint's shoulder, babbling nonsense that sounds suspiciously like an agreement, and Tony narrows his eyes. "I'm not his favorite," he insists.

Amy wrinkles her nose. "Liar."

"What she said," Teddy chimes in.

Bruce shrugs. "Sounds about right," he agrees, closing his book.

"Nobody asked the peanut gallery _or_ the guy who's listening to 'Love the Way You Lie' on repeat," Tony reminds all of them, and even Clint joins in on the family eye roll. He scowls as he glances back over his shoulder. "Babies are like cats. They sense the people who hate them and behave accordingly."

Clint grins. "Sounds about right," he replies, stroking P.J.'s hair. "He act okay? 'Cause with Phil helping his sister move, our whole routine's a little—"

He wiggles his hand like an unbalanced scale instead of finishing the sentence, and Tony shrugs. "He refused to eat anything besides green beans and those disgusting disintegrating cheese things, but otherwise, he seemed okay."

"He likes my book," Amy adds helpfully. "And the cat."

"Ca?" P.J. asks, his head springing up from Clint's shoulder. He glances around the room, his eyes wide. "Ja-fish ca?"

Clint shakes his head. "Great, now we're not gonna be able to leave 'til he sees the cat," he complains, but the asshole keeps smiling, too.

Tony admires that smile as he helps herd the Bartons out the door, partially because he remembers the somber Clint from over the summer and the rest because, hey, he knows that smile. He lives it, right down to the soles of his feet, because he fell in love with a couple wayward kids who still floor him every time they call him "dad."

Like Amy, who whines and gloms onto his waist when he nudges her toward the stairs. "But it's Friday," she insists, pressing her pointy chin into his ribs. "Can’t I stay up late with you? And Teddy? Because Dot—"

"Dot maintains a loose relationship with the truth on the best days, and you know it," Tony chides, bopping her on the nose. "And friendly reminder: the more you argue with me now, the more I forget about Saturday morning doughnuts."

Amy heaves a sigh. "You're the mean dad today," she decides.

"Mark that down on the calendar," he retorts, and dips to kiss her on the forehead.

Bruce trails up after her, book in hand, and Tony admires the line of his back (and, admittedly, his ass) before heading back into the living room. Teddy plugs along on his paper, barely grunting when Tony musses up his hair, and they exchange a quick smile as Tony walks out onto the back deck. The dogs, predictably, follow, plunging into the darkness like twin streaks of silver lightning.

He's thinking about calling the Lee house—checking up on Miles, since he's spending the night away since the whole Tess thing blew up in their faces—when the back door slides open and Teddy wanders out. He's bundled up in a hoodie, thick socks, and some serious fleece pajama pants, but he still hunches his shoulders against the cold.

Worse, he hesitates, his lips rolled together.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Problem?"

Teddy shrugs. "No, not really. More like . . . " He pauses again, longer this time, and perches on the edge of a lawn chair. Every muscle in his body tenses, uncomfortable, and Tony frowns as he sits down next to him. "What do call those questions Bruce writes for his law school class, again?"

"Hypotheticals."

"That's what I have, then, I guess. A hypothetical."

Tony snorts and nudges his knee. "You know that playing law-school professor with an actual lawyer's a recipe for disaster, right?" he asks. "'Cause last year, for our anniversary—"

"Okay, _no_ ," Teddy interrupts, sticking up his hands. Tony grins at him, a blatant attempt to scrape off the hard edge off the conversation, and Teddy actually laughs as he shakes his head. Except his expression tightens a second later, and he drops his eyes down to his hands. "I, uh. I have this friend, okay?"

"Which one?" 

"That's not important. You can pick." Tony tips his head, desperately trying to catch his kid's gaze, but Teddy stalwartly keeps picking at his cuticles. "This friend," he continues, "they're struggling. Like, really bad. And they're trying to sort everything out like somebody twice their age, but it's not working. And I—" His voice cracks a little. "I'm really worried they might implode."

Tony snorts. "Sounds like Bishop," he jokes, but Teddy says nothing. Sits perfectly still, even as a little bead of blood wells up at the base of his thumb nail. When Tony lightly nudges his hands, though, he shoves them both in the pockets of his hoodie. "You trying to help this friend?" Tony asks. 

Teddy nods. "Yeah."

"Keeping an eye on them?"

"Yeah, always." The gravity of the words, never mind his tone, surprise Tony a little, and he blinks while Teddy flushes. They watch one another for a couple seconds, the silence between them broken only by the sound of the dogs tearing through the yard. Eventually, though, Teddy sighs. "I just— I don't know when I'm supposed to tell somebody what's going on," he admits. "Because I don't want him to stop trusting me, but I know the second I say _anything_ —"

The word wobbles dangerously, shuddering through him like the start of a sob, and he swallows instead of finishing the sentence. "Hey," Tony says, touching his knee, "I know where you're coming from, okay? You wanna be a good friend. But if you're at the point where you can't handle your buddy's secrets alone? That's when you tell somebody. And since you're out here, talking to me, I think you already know all that. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Teddy murmurs, and his throat bobs again. For a few seconds, Tony expects more from him—a second phase of the conversation, maybe, or the hug he obviously craves—but instead of that, the kid just digs his phone out of his pocket. He fiddles with it for a second, unlocking the screen and scrolling through a handful of text messages, and all of a sudden, Tony's heart crawls into his throat.

"Ted?"

His kid shakes his head. "I'm really sorry, Dad," he murmurs, holding out his cell phone to display the name on top of the text conversation.

**Miles**.


	11. A Message from the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony and Bruce confront Miles's secrecy head-on. Except Miles's secrecy is just a symptom of the greater problem--and it's pretty clear that _that_ pot is about to boil over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, for being swift readers who improve my stories. 
> 
> If you're thinking, _when are all of their issues going to come to a head_ , the answer is: soon. Very, very soon. Oh, Tony. You poor messed-up soul.

"There's no way you don't know more."

Tony hears the hysterical edge to his tone, the barely contained panic that threatens to bubble out of his stomach at any second, but he ignores it to jab the cell phone at Teddy. Teddy glances away, hiding his face, and Tony grits his teeth to keep from shouting. Behind the couch, Bruce stops pacing.

Tony ignores him.

"I know you're trying to play brother of the year," he presses, his grip on the phone tightening, "but given that these messages basically paint you as his, I don't know, mild-mannered coconspirator and confidant—"

"Like I said, he never tells me the details." Teddy scrubs a hand over his face, his whole body trembling. For a single, intense second, Tony's anger dims just enough that a touch of sympathy seeps through. Teddy just shakes his head. "He figured that the more he said, the more you'd drag out of me if you ever checked our phones. I cover for him, but I don't know the rest. Really."

The last word wavers, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears, and Tony resists the urge to throw up his hands. In a stunning show of weakness, Bruce reaches over the back of the couch to card his fingers through Teddy's hair, his touch gentle enough that Tony swears he feels ghost nails against his own scalp. 

He paces away from the couch—from the whole scene, really—just as Bruce sighs. "I know you want to protect your brother, but this isn't just sneaking out for midnight tacos. Aaron Davis abandoned a sixth-grader to avoid felony charges. He's a dangerous man."

Teddy snorts. "Yeah, sure," he responds, shockingly sarcastic for a kid five minutes away from a life sentence of hard chores without the possibility of parole. "Davis is a criminal, and Amy's mom is a drug addict." He lifts his head just enough to meet Tony's gaze. "They're still family. And even if you hate him, you can't just ignore that."

Bruce's shoulders tighten slightly, almost like he's fighting against a flinch, and Tony stalks into the kitchen just to avoid watching his face fall. On his way, he flips back through the hundreds of text messages between his sons, eight weeks of carefully curated secrets that leave him feeling pissed and nauseous in equal measure. The chronicle of lies dates back to around P.J. Barton's birthday party, a time when Tony'd tried to harass his friends about Aaron Davis's possible return and, more importantly, failed miserably. 

Except while he'd brushed off Bruce's worry—both of their worry, really, a silent fear that lurked in the shadows every time they stopped for breath—Miles'd snuck out of the house on weekends or fabricated library dates with friends just to meet up with his uncle, and his brother'd helped.

He stops scrolling in the middle of a conversation from about two weeks earlier, and his heart sinks.

**Miles:** _u dont get it_

**Me:** _then explain it to me. because you need to tell somebody, and I'm the only person who won't judge you about it_

**Miles:** _ur alwys jdgin abt sumthin_

**Me:** _that's billy, not me_

**Miles:** _lol_

**Miles:** _dragd ur bf nice_

**Miles:** _but ok so_

**Miles:** _i no he did bad stuf rite?? crmes n shit or whtvr_

**Miles:** _but hes ok. not gud not bad but ok_

**Me:** _somebody can be better than they used to be but still not deserve your time_

**Miles:** _ugh u snd like if jess j n dad hd a baby_

Tony almost huffs at that last line (a typical insult in their family, mostly to hide Miles's not entirely secret crush on his favorite social worker) until he remembers the day after that conversation. Miles'd skulked around the house all day, grumpy and withdrawn, until Tony'd bribed him out of his shell with popcorn and a shitty movie. 

Just another example of him trying to fix everything with jokes and junk food, he thinks, and glances back into the living room.

Teddy still sits on the couch, his head in his hands as Bruce paces circles around the room. Twice, he digs his fingers through his hair like a mad scientist grappling with some sort of monstrous creation; another time, he looks in Tony's direction, purses his lips, and immediately ducks his head. Hides his lost expression from the one person able to read it, Tony thinks, and his heart clenches. 

At least, until he remembers again that his kid's hanging out with a felon instead of playing video games in the Lees' apartment. That thought alone brings back the all-consuming anger.

He stalks back over to the couch.

"Tell us everything," he instructs, and the coffee table rattles as he sits down on the edge. Teddy jerks his head up, his cheeks coated in tears, and Tony shakes his head against the little kernel of sorrow that still swims around in his gut. "You don't know where they hang out? Fine. Don't know who picks him up or drops him off? I'll live with that. But there's gotta be something you didn't write down. A conversation in the bathroom, something you talked about at group, him picking one of those arguments with you in the Prius . . . "

He flaps his hand as he trails off, the universal sign for _come on, spill it_ , but Teddy just shakes his head. "I really don't know," he says, the words still slightly choked. "We almost never talked about it in, like, words. He really didn't want you to know. And except for Kate, he kept it from everybody in group."

"What about Kate?" Bruce asks, and Teddy immediately cringes. Bruce circles the couch slowly, a worried (and possibly livid) predator stalking the inevitable kill, and Teddy ducks his head. "Teddy, you know us. We're not unreasonable or overprotective. But if there's something you know that'll help—"

"He and Kate talked about it, one time," Teddy blurts, his brow tight and voice still wavering. "I don't know what they said to each other, but I just— They understand each other, you know? Like, they both run away when you care too much about them. I think that's why I never pushed him, you know? I didn't want him to stop trusting me."

Bruce rolls his lips together, the flicker of hurt on his face clear as day, and Tony— Well, to be honest, Tony discovers that as much as he tries, he can't quite drum up any more anger. He's burned away all the fuel, stoked the embers within an inch of their life, but now, only the ash remains. Ash and a kid who's about ten seconds from crying, his shoulders shaking as he rubs his face and tries to keep breathing.

Tony glances back down at the phone, to one of the first conversations between his boys.

**Me:** _if you're going, promise me that you'll be careful and come home. okay?_

**Miles:** _yeah ok_

He stares at the messages until his vision blurs. "What if you needed him home?" 

Blinking, Teddy jerks his head up. "What?"

"You're not idiots. You knew something might happen here. An emergency, one of Amy's night terrors, the kind of parental insomnia that ensures nobody in the house sleeps properly?" Teddy snorts at a little, almost rolling his eyes, but Tony shakes the phone at him. "Means you developed some kinda system. A way to call your brother home if you needed him."

Teddy hesitates, and Tony ignores one of the kid's thousand snapchat alerts to wag the phone in his general direction. Finally, he nods. "We kind of stole this secret phrase idea from Eli's grandparents," he admits. "They made up this code for Eli to use on the phone if he's ever kidnapped or something. We did two of them: one for if you guys woke up and started looking for him, one for if he needed me."

The corner of Bruce's mouth twists, the ghost of a smile, but Tony ignores it to thumb open a new text in the ongoing conversation. "Tell me the phrase."

Teddy flinches. "I don't—"

"Yeah, I'm not actually asking." His kid drops his gaze to pick at another hangnail, and for an instant, Tony thinks he'll actually explode. "Look," he says, "I've done a _really_ admirable job here of not completely losing my mind on you, kid. I'd like that trend to continue. But if you think for a second that my patience is gonna survive your misplaced sibling loyalty, you're not only completely wrong, but actually actively stupid." The phone case creaks, and he forces himself to loosen his grip. "Secret 'bring him home' pass phrase. _Now_."

The kid gulps, his shoulders back to trembling, and Bruce sighs as he plants a hand on Teddy's knee. "Please, Teddy. We need him home."

"Yeah, but he trusts me," Teddy murmurs, and for some reason, those five words slice right through the softest part of Tony's chest. He looks down at the phone—the blinking black cursor, the expectant keyboard—and waits impatiently for the next refusal.

"Teddy," Bruce insists.

"'One Direction is still better than any of the boy bands from the 90s,'" Teddy recites, and Bruce kisses him on the temple while Tony types up the message. 

The room falls silent after that, Teddy staring at his hands while Tony tries not to pace a trench into the carpet. The phone buzzes occasionally, an endless collection of Facebook messages and unread texts, but Tony closes out of every alert. Staring at the conversation with Miles comforts him, somehow, reminds him that his son's out there in the world with a plan to arrive home at three in the morning and lie about Ganke throwing up during their sleepover.

Except the second Tony thinks about all Miles's other sleepovers, years of them, his stomach clenches.

Suddenly, fourteen feels way too young for these kinds of lies.

Eventually, Teddy mutters something about bed and staggers to his feet, his whole body swaying like the exhaustion and grief's about to bowl him over. Bruce squeezes his wrist, the universal sign of parental support, and Teddy forces him a tiny smile before glancing over at Tony.

They stare at each other for a couple seconds, Teddy's eyes somehow damp and bloodshot at the same time.

Finally, though, Tony sighs. "C'mere," he instructs, and his kid only hesitates for about a second.

The hug feels desperate, somehow, like they're sharing a lifeline, and Tony's not really surprised when Bruce walks up and wraps an arm around both of their backs. "We're not pissed at you," Tony murmurs, unsurprised by the absolute certainty in his voice. "We're scared shitless and we're probably going to ground your brother for the rest of his natural life—"

Bruce snorts. "At least."

"—but we're not mad. We're just . . . " The words falter, all of them failing at the exact same time, and Tony sighs as he presses his face against Teddy's hair. "You're a good kid," he whispers, "and we're all lucky to have you."

Teddy sniffles against his shoulder.

Bruce sticks around after Teddy retreats, and Tony barely registers the dark circles under the guy's eyes before reeling him in. If Teddy's hug felt desperate, this one feels like clinging to the last life preserver in a stormy sea, and Tony immediately presses his face into Bruce's neck. Bruce sighs, his hands curling in Tony's sweater, and they lose a couple seconds to just standing there, remembering how to breathe.

"I hate this," Tony murmurs, the words almost lost against Bruce's skin. "I don't know what to do, I'm scared out of my mind, I want to personally throttle Aaron Davis, and I—" He huffs out a breath as the words start to shake and, slowly, raises his head. "Please tell me you're in the same place, right now."

Despite the terribleness of the last couple hours, Bruce smiles softly. "I'll feel the same thing as soon as I stop worrying."

Tony almost rolls his eyes. "Bruce Banner, the scourge of emotional multitasking," he grumbles, and his husband snorts as they rest their foreheads together.

They're into what feels like their sixth pot of tea when, suddenly, the front door creaks open. Bruce stills, his mug a few inches from his mouth; Tony ignores the seasick feeling of his heart dropping into his stomach to unlock Teddy's phone and bring up his text message history. The secret phrase glares up at him, accusatory in the dim light of the living room, and he flips the phone face-down.

He tries to catalogue every sound—the door thumping shut, the jangling of keys abandoned on the table in the front hall, the rustling sound of a bag abandoned in the hallway—but the closer he listens, the more he forgets to breathe. By the time he exhales, Miles's shadow stretches out of the hallway and into the living room, a familiar shape that inspires both dogs to sit up in their beds.

"Stay," Miles hisses, reaching for the bannister that'll lead him upstairs.

Reaching and freezing, because at that moment, he spots his parents sitting on the couch.

They all stare at one another for a couple seconds, the three of them pinned by the sheer weight of the silence that surrounds them, and Miles cringes slightly as he rubs his hand over his head. "I probably should've, like, called or something," he says, "but Ganke kind of threw up everywhere? Too much junk, I think. And since I didn't want to wake you guys up—"

"What'd he eat?" Miles frowns a little, his brow tightening, and Tony shrugs. "I've seen Ganke wash down half a pizza with three Mountain Dews. Kid's stomach is basically made of steel. What threw him off?"

Their kid glances over at Bruce, but as usual, the guy just sips his tea. Calm as a whole barrel of cucumbers, with an unreadable expression to boot. Miles rolls his lips together. "Some Korean thing, I think. That cabbage stuff? I don't know, it smelled like feet."

"But you're feeling okay?" Bruce asks, eyebrows raised.

Miles shrugs. "Yeah. Tired, but not, like, sick or anything. I just mostly want to go to bed, you know?"

He jerks his head up the stairs, his one hand still planted on the banister, and Tony leans back on the couch. "And here, I figured you'd want to listen to some One Direction."

Immediately, Miles blanches, his face almost turning ashen. "What?" he asks. His voice sounds stuck in the back of his throat.

"Backstreet Boys, maybe?" Tony continues, reaching for Teddy's phone. "You're always mocking Justin Timberlake, so I'm guessing you're not much of an N'Sync fan. Pretty sure there's a third group I'm forgetting, but, I mean, your brother definitely prefers One Direction."

He holds up Teddy's phone, the screen shining like a beacon in the relative dark of the room, and Miles's face falls. His gaze sweeps back and forth between Tony, Bruce, and the phone, almost as though he's looking for an escape valve. Either that, Tony thinks, or a swift exit. "Look," he says, holding up his hands, "I don't know what crazy shit Teddy told you, but—"

"Oh, Teddy told us plenty," Tony cuts him off, dropping the phone back down on the coffee table, "and you have about thirty seconds before we send the cops on a truly _epic_ manhunt for your shithead uncle."

He catches Bruce's frown out of the corner of his eye, but nothing compares to the way Miles's whole face hardens. He squares his shoulders, obviously preparing for the fight of his life, and Tony— Well, Tony demonstrates what Pepper sometimes calls his "catastrophic lack of self-preservation" by raising his eyebrows. 

For a record-breaking fifteen seconds, nobody moves.

"Why are you such an asshole?" Miles demands, the words bursting out of him with the concussive force of a cannon blast. "Every time I do anything, you—"

"React like a parent?" Tony shoots back. His kid dares to roll his eyes, his distain almost palpable, and Tony rockets off the couch. "Listen, kid, I don't know when or why you decided that you're the grand arbiter of your own destiny, but as long as you're our kid—"

"You'll never ask me _anything_?" The question settles heavy in Tony's gut, an uninvited iciness that snaps his jaw shut, and Miles shakes his head. "I tried to tell you," he says. "Back during the summer, when he stopped me at school, but you're both totally obsessed with, like, everything except me!"

Still sitting on the couch, Bruce asks, "Your uncle came to the school?"

Miles snorts. "Yeah, because _that's_ the part—"

"Your uncle's the subject of a no-contact order," Tony cuts in. "Visiting you anywhere, at any time, is against the law. Like about ninety-five percent of his hobbies, last time I checked."

Bruce murmurs his name, probably in warning, but Miles throws his hands up before Tony bothers responding. "Who cares if he did bad things?" he asks, voice dangerously close to cracking. "Like, everybody fucks up sometimes. You think we don't all know that your whole 'my heart blew up' thing is about how you almost killed yourself by doing too many drugs?" Immediately, Tony feels his face flush, but his kid just shifts to Bruce. "And you, like, ran away to India because your dad was a horrible person! But while you screw up and get to be my parents, Uncle Aaron—"

"Lost that privilege the day he left you alone in the apartment." Bruce rises from the couch, the words steady, and Tony balls his fists to keep his hands from shaking in— What? Anger? Frustration? He's not actually sure. His husband, though, just shakes his head. "You're right. We're not perfect. But we've never abandoned a child."

"Yeah, sure," Miles retorts, "unless you count Tess."

He spits the words like venom, and immediately, Tony's heart sinks like a stone. He presses his lips together as his blood runs cold, and for one dizzying second, he thinks he'll throw up. Not because of the tea, obviously, but because of the hard edge to Miles's expression.

Bruce, however, just says, "No."

Miles rolls his eyes. "Uh, pretty sure—"

"No, Miles," Bruce repeats, and his sharp tone leaves absolutely no room for argument. "I don't care how upset you are. That crosses the line, and you know it."

"And treating Uncle Aaron like a murderer isn't?" Miles demands, throwing up his hands. "Because that's how you're acting! Like he took people out back and shot them, instead of just sucking at being a parent."

Bruce shakes his head. "Your uncle—"

"Cares about me!" Miles cuts in, and this time, his voice shakes. Tony draws in a breath, tries to tamp down on the anger he feels (a nice change of pace from the heartache a couple seconds earlier), but Miles barely pauses. "He loves me, and he's sorry! Why isn't that enough?"

"Because he abandoned you!" Tony snaps, and both his husband and son flinch at his pent-up anger. "I'm glad you're able to forgive him, but as far as I'm concerned, ditching you is a capital fucking offense." 

Bruce rolls his lips together (more at the language than the sentiment if their late-night conversations two years back are to be believed), and for the first time all night, Miles hesitates. He glances between them, the line of his shoulders softening, and for a second, Tony imagines a world where they actually _talk_ about the last several weeks of lies. No shouting, no accusations, and no more empty feeling lurking in the pit of Tony's stomach.

His kid dashes his dreams a minute later.

"You're not pissed at him," he accuses, jabbing a finger at Tony. His hand shakes. "No, you're threatened or something. You're afraid I’ll want to live with him and ruin everything. Why else would you freak out instead of just—"

"Because you're fourteen years old!" The words boom with the percussive force of a thunderclap, and all at once, Miles stills. Bruce ignores it, though, stalking toward their kid like a lion at feeding time. "You're a child, Miles. _Our_ child. And as long as you're our son living in our house, you're not in a democracy. You could have been honest with us, asked if you could visit your uncle, but instead, you lied to us for eight weeks!" His voice wobbles a little, cracking out of anger (or, Tony suspects, out of emotion), but he just shakes his head. "Do you really need to wonder why we're upset?"

Miles gulps audibly. "I—" he stammers, but he hesitates the second his dad raises his eyebrows. They stare at each other, an interminable standoff that lasts only seconds. Finally, though, Miles glances at his feet. "No."

"Good," Bruce responds. "Go to bed. We'll work out the consequences in the morning."

Their kid nods, just the one uneven jerk of his head, and for an instant, Tony's chest relaxes. For the first time in a long time, he believes they beat a teenager with reason and common sense instead of the usual string of shouts, swears, and slammed doors.

At least, until Miles's jaw tightens. "Sometimes," he says, flicking his eyes up, "I wish my uncle never left."

 

"Bed," Bruce repeats, but this time, the word trembles. Their kid huffs and stomps up the stairs, his footsteps almost shaking the walls. When he slams his bedroom door, Tony feels the impact in his teeth, but it's the silence that sweeps in afterward that threatens to drown him. For a couple seconds, he stands stock still, rooted in place by the unbearable weight of the last few hours.

Until Bruce's shoulders shudder.

Tony springs into action at that, his heart sinking even as his feet finally remember how to move, but rather than accept his outstretched arm, Bruce steps away. "I'm not—" he tries, his voice cracking. He shakes his head. "I know you want to debrief, but I need—"

"Bruce," Tony murmurs, but Bruce angles away from his touch, his face tipped away. The low light hides his expression, but not his uneven breaths, or the way his hand quakes when he runs fingers through his hair. "Big guy, come on, we—"

"I can't right now, Tony," Bruce interrupts, shaking his head again. "Not right now. Later, okay?"

And as much as every part of him—his heart, his stomach, his chest, his _soul_ —aches, Tony nods. "Yeah, okay," he echoes, and watches Bruce head down the hall.

 

==

 

Hours later, after Tony sinks fully into the silence like an old friend (or a warm bath after too many pain pills, he thinks, and shivers at the memory), Bruce slinks into the bedroom. He avoids the squeaky floorboard by the door and the shoes outside their closet, creeping like a cat burglar as he strips down to his underwear, and even when he crawls into bed, he says nothing.

He stares at the ceiling while Tony studies the wall.

The six inches of mattress between them suddenly feels wider than the Pacific Ocean.

They lie like that for a long time, Tony's body coiled against the inevitable argument like he expects a physical blow, but in the end, Bruce just rolls into his personal space like normal. His knees bump the back of Tony's legs, his arm slots perfectly around Tony's waist, and when Tony finally exhales, they feel _normal_ again. Like a well-oiled machine, matching halves of the same whole.

Tony tangles his fingers in Bruce's and closes his eyes. And whether it's the darkness, or the quiet, or the close quarters, he swears he feels Bruce's heart beating against his back, a familiar fluttering that almost lulls him right to sleep.

Eventually, though, Bruce sighs against the back of his neck. "I don't know what we're doing," he murmurs, a secret saved for the dark of their bedroom.

Tony's stomach clenches, but somehow, he swallows around it. "Honestly," he replies, "the feeling's mutual."

 

==

 

The next ten or so days of Tony's life—interminable days, ones that stretch on forever and leave him bleary-eyed and discombobulated—look mostly like this:

 

**Saturday**

"Still with the cold shoulder?" Tony asks after Bruce leaves the room, and Miles snorts. His gaze lingers on the table in their kitchen nook, staring at the sunny patch there without really _seeing_ it, and Tony rubs his forehead. "Look, kid, I know you think we're being, like, full-on dictators who refuse to listen to reason," he says, "but we're not. We're being parents. And like your dad already said, part of parenting means setting reasonable boundaries. Even if you don't especially like those boundaries."

His kid huffs a little, his scowl mostly hidden even as he picks at the ends of his cereal.

Tony jabs a finger in his direction. "Actually, you know what? I retract that last sentence. Because it's not _even_ when you don't like the boundaries, it's _especially_ when you don't like them. Means we're doing our job right."

Miles shrugs, the world's most lackluster reaction, and for a couple minutes, Tony just waits. He expects some sort of break in the tension—a couple grunts into the silence, a flinch of his kid's iron-clad expression, a millisecond of eye contact—but instead, Miles keeps right on poking at his milk-logged Captain Crunch. Full of no sound but loads of fury, Tony thinks, and leaving no room for discussion.

Eventually, though, Tony sighs. "Look, if you're not going to say _anything_ —"

"What's there to say?" The ice in Miles's tone practically knocks the breath out of Tony, but the kid just shakes his head. "I'm grounded until you decide you can trust me. No phone, no internet, no friends unless they're at therapy or over here for a project. Like prison, but with more homework." He lifts his head just far enough to meet Tony's gaze. "Are you done, or do you want to lecture me some more?"

Tony ignores the way the frost in his son's expression crawls into his chest and crystalizes around his heart. "You apologize to your dad for what you said last night?"

Miles rolls his lips together before he shakes his head. "I will, yeah."

Tony shrugs. "In that case, we're done whenever you're ready to be done," he says, and he pretends not to hurt when Miles storms out of the kitchen.

 

**Sunday**

"You know, credit where credit's due and all that, but you're really holding your cards close to the chest on this one," Tony says, his breath cloudy thanks to the frigid fall air. "An hour-long conversation with our kid, closed doors and everything, and you barely say a word about it all day. Almost like you're sworn to secrecy."

Bruce rolls his eyes at that, but his attention never really strays away from the dogs. They race back and forth across the park, smudges of dappled gray against a dingy gray landscape, and Tony almost laughs when Butterfingers runs into a tree. At least, until Bruce shakes his head. "He's hurt," he murmurs, almost whispering. "Worse, he's scared. And even though none of that excuses his behavior, I—"

His voice sticks, and Tony slings an arm around his waist. "Hey," he says, nudging Bruce's hip until he glances over. "I think we're both experts in the field of self-destructive bullshit. Our kid running to his uncle because he feels a little bit lost sucks, but—"

"He's not lost," Bruce interrupts, and the sudden certainty in his expression steals the last of Tony's breath. They stare at each other for a moment, Bruce's eyes tracing all of Tony's features until finally, inevitably, he sighs. "He used to be our only child, Tony. The center of our universe. Now, he just feels . . . small, I guess. Small, unimportant, and forgotten." He shrugs and shakes his head. "There's no easy fix for that. There's just more therapy, more love, and time."

Tony purses his lips. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he replies, and presses his face against Bruce's shoulder. 

 

**Monday**

"Most children in Amy's situation suffer a lot of anxiety at this point," Amy's therapist says, his glasses perched on the very end of his nose. "The closer they come to the end of their cases, the more reality sets in. A lot of our discussions revolve around how permanent this last hearing will be for her: her mother's rights being terminated, the adoption process, the future with you as her fathers, rather than just her foster parents."

Bruce nods, but even from the other end of the couch, Tony notices his anxiety. It radiates away from him in waves, communicated in miniscule fidget and jostle, and the more he wriggles around, the more Tony's chest tightens. The therapist almost always communicates through notes and e-mails, reminding them about the importance of routines and bedtimes, but a face-to-face meeting—

Ever since he'd dropped onto the couch, Tony's been braced for the explosion. For the bomb to drop, really, spreading shrapnel all over this nice office with the plush carpet and art therapy corner.

When the silence stretches out just a little too long, Bruce tosses Tony an expectant glance. They stare at each other for a couple seconds, all cocked eyebrows and tiny shrugs, before Tony flicks his gaze back at the therapist. "And?"

The guy blinks. "Excuse me?"

"There's no way you invited us in just for a 'stay the course' kind of chat. Especially since you know that this one—" He jerks a thumb in Bruce's direction. "—works cases like Amy's for a living. There's obviously a catch. Right?"

The therapist pales a little, but eventually, he nods. "Like I said, Amy's anxiety about the case is expected," he says, adjusting his glasses. "What's not expected—and what I think we need to discuss this afternoon—is the _other_ significant source of her anxiety."

Immediately, Bruce stops fiddling with his watch to frown. "Another source? You don't mean—"

"Tess Hansen," the therapist confirms, and Tony closes his eyes.

 

**Tuesday**

"Do you ever think the universe is trying to tell you something?" Teddy asks, staring out the window.

Tony glances away from the road for a split second. "We talking about the universe as in the place, or a sort of capital-u Universe with god-like powers and a vindictive streak?"

His kid snorts, almost smiling, and Tony grins as he nudges his arm across the center console. Still, they sit in comfortable silence for a little while until Teddy clarifies, "The second one. I mean, I know you don't believe in god, but . . . "

He shrugs, his lips rolling together, and Tony stalls for a beat before he shrugs. "Nah, not really. If I've learned one thing in the last forty-odd years, it's that I'm the master of my own disaster, you know?"

Teddy nods. "Yeah, sure," he agrees, and tilts his temple against the window. 

 

**Wednesday**

"You look sad," Tess says, resting her chin on her knees. "Did something bad happen? Like when that earthquake killed all the people in Japan?"

Tony almost answers (well, argues, technically), but all of a sudden, his brain catches up to the rest of his body and he cocks his head to the side. "You remember the earthquake in Japan?" he asks, squinting at his phone. "What are you, the pint-sized queen of current events?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Mom's friend Aldrich helped the people in the special power plant," she replies, shrugging. "He's really smart at science. Not as smart as mom, but—"

"What about me?" Tony cuts in, and she blinks a little. "Your mom blinded me with science, sure, but only after I dazzled her with my big brain. Gotta give me _some_ credit, right?"

Even though he grins, Tess studies him with the utmost seriousness. "Sometimes, when we try really hard but don't do our homework right," she finally answers, "my teacher gives us little gold stickers."

He raises his eyebrows. "Ignoring for a moment that she obviously cribbed that move from an internet meme, I don't necessarily know how that applies to—"

"You need one for trying to be smarter than Mum," Tess cuts him off, and she lights up like the dawn when Tony laughs. 

 

**Thursday**

"I know I disappointed you," Tony murmurs, his fingers tracing down the middle of Bruce's chest. "Maybe not even in the past tense. I disappoint you. Clear and present danger, you know?"

Bruce snorts, his hand still loosely cupping the back of Tony's neck. "You're not disappointing."

Tony wriggles around to glance up at him. "But?"

His husband frowns, his brow crinkling like he plans on protesting. No, on second thought, his brow crinkles less like he wants to argue and more like he wants an _answer_ , the right response to Tony's question. Or maybe just any old response, Tony amends, and he presses a kiss to Bruce's ribs.

Bruce squirms (ticklish as always), and a moment later, his hand drifts from Tony's neck to his face. He strokes his thumb along Tony's bottom lip for a second before saying, "We're learning to share you. To adjust to a new normal where your attention's split three ways. That's not easy for any of us—me included."

"Except one plus one adds up to two, not three." Bruce's hand stills, and Tony shifts just enough to rest his chin on his husband's chest. "Like, even assuming for the sake of argument that Tess and Maya earn an equal share of the pie—and they don't, by the way—we're still just slicing it right down the middle. You know?"

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "And work?"

"Deserves a sliver. No, actually, correction: work deserves the crumbly bits of crust that sometimes fall off when you're packing the pie in the car for Thanksgiving." This time, Bruce's little snort actually sounds like a chuckle, and Tony smirks. "See? Resistance is futile."

"Only because you stole my pants before we started this conversation." He rolls his eyes at Tony's overblown wink, but he never stops stroking a hand over his back. The touch feels so good, so _right_ after the weeks of uncertainty, that Tony sighs and closes his eyes.

After a while, Bruce asks, "Do you miss her?"

"Who?"

"Tess. You stopped seeing her after we talked about refocusing, and I just wondered . . . "

Bruce shrugs lightly even as he trails off, and Tony— Well, Tony purses his lips and hopes the dim light of their bedroom hides the wave of guilt that crashes over him. "A little, maybe," he admits.

Bruce tugs him closer. 

 

**Friday**

"Columbia University? As in, New York City?" Teddy jumps almost a mile in the air, the laptop teetering dangerously on his knee, and Tony raises his hands. "Not spying, I promise. Just stopped by to check on the laundry, and—"

"Walked all the way into my room?" Teddy accuses, all arched eyebrows and carefully cultivated distrust. Tony shrugs in a sorry attempt to feign innocence, and his kid sighs. "Billy's parents graduated from there," he explains, closing his computer. "They want him to apply, and I . . . "

He picks at the rainbow sticker on his computer as he trails off, and Tony allows him one beat of precious silence before dropping onto the bed next to him. "Wild horses, right?" Teddy frowns, and immediately, Tony rolls his eyes. "Seriously, _that's_ the pop culture reference you miss? I mean, I know the Stones aren't exactly Queen Bee, but—"

Teddy wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I'm not even dignifying that with a response." Tony grins, expecting at least a chuckle for his efforts; instead, though, the teen just flops back on his bed and rubs his hands over his face. "I don't know what I'm doing," he mumbles. "Not even with college or Billy, just with, like, everything. My whole life. You know?"

Tony shrugs and leans back on his elbows. "Probably more than I'm supposed to admit to one of my kids," he replies, and Teddy snorts into his palms. "You wanna talk about it? And before you ask, no, I won't base my advice on the fact that Columbia is the literal armpit of the Ivy League."

His kid peeks out from behind his hands just to frown. "Is this an MIT thing or a Boston thing?" he asks.

"Uh, it's definitely just a good taste thing," Tony retorts, and Teddy rolls his eyes.

 

**Saturday**

Miles blows out a long, hard breath and falls into the pile of leaves. "I'm done. Bury me here. I can't do any more raking."

"Well, if you're sure . . . " Tony replies, and predictably, Miles sputters when he flips a rake's worth of leaves onto his kid's face and chest. There's something comforting and normal about his kid laughing, never mind the rustle of the November wind through the trees, and Tony grins as he offers Miles a hand.

Miles grabs his wrist and tugs just hard enough to throw Tony off-balance.

He swears he inhales, like, three entire maple leaves when he hits the ground, but Miles just cackles.

Despite the twig jabbing him in the spine, Tony rolls over, and the two of them lay like that for a couple minutes, studying the grey, wintery sky. The forecast keeps threatening snow (or, worse, the dreaded "wintry mix"), but right now, the day just feels peaceful. Cold and quiet, like in a poem.

Eventually, though, Miles says, "I wanted him to be my dad."

Instead of frowning, Tony rolls his lips together. "We talking about your uncle, or—"

Miles nods. "I mean, all the way down in my gut, I think I knew he'd never be a good dad," he says, his eyes still trained on the bare branches above them. "He had a lot of problems, and he— Like, it feels weird to call him selfish, but he was. He was _totally_ selfish." His voice cracks a little, but he chases it away with a shake of his head. "I guess when all the people who love you disappear, you kind of want a replacement. You know?"

He glances over at Tony, his face so full of hope that Tony's breath literally sticks in his chest. Nodding unevenly, he reaches over to rest his hand on the top of his kid's head. "We won't disappear on you," he says, and every word carries the weight of a promise. "And even if we don't share the same blood, we're a family. Us, your dad, your siblings. You got that?"

Miles holds his gaze for a couple seconds before shrugging. "Yeah," he says, "I guess."

"Proving once and for all that I need to keep reminding you until you _know_ ," Tony replies, and Miles snorts even as he smiles.

 

**Sunday**

"This tea party is _boring_ ," Dot laments, her chin resting heavily in her hand. "We need more people. Will your brothers play with us?"

Amy shakes her head as she snags another cookie. "They're doing homework. I guess it's hard and boring when you're old like them." 

Tony snorts, and immediately, Dot jerks her head in his direction. "Sorry, short stack," he says, gesturing to the pile of briefs teetering dangerously on the arm of the couch. "Righteous victory waits for no man. Or, at least, the appellate courts refuse to grant more than three continuances on any given brief. Something about the timely administration of justice, I guess."

Dot tosses a glance back at her almost-cousin. "Is he weirder than normal today?" she asks, and not in a whisper, either.

Amy stops adjusting her tiara to grin. "He's _always_ weird," she replies. "That's why we like him."

Sighing, Dot grumbles her agreement before asking for a second cup of lukewarm tea. They fall back into character easily—from the sound of it, Amy's arrived from a far-away kingdom to ask Queen Dot for help with a dragon—and after stealing a cookie from the coffee table, Tony returns to his work. The pint-sized conversation fades into the background, the perfect white noise as he highlights and underlines.

At least, until Amy shoots up from the table and shouts, "No!" 

By the time Tony raises his head—and, more importantly, rescues a tiny teacup from certain death—Amy's charging up the stairs, her frilly pink princess dress trailing behind her. He blinks a couple times, more out of confusion than anything else, and looks over at Dot. "You wanna tell me what happened?" he asks as Amy's bedroom door slams.

Dot shrugs. "I just asked if she wanted to invite Tess over to play with us," she says, and Tony grits his teeth against the way his chest seizes. 

 

**Monday**

"I'm not having another conversation about it, Tony," Rhodey says, lifting his hands. "I'll keep telling him he better talk to you about it, but otherwise—"

"You support him hanging around his asshole uncle?" 

The guy freezes in the middle of his sentence, his mouth hanging open, and Tony scrubs a hand through his hair. His office reminds him of a battleground—provided, of course, that the fighting's all done with pens, highlighters, and stacks of paper. _Reams_ of paper, really, an environmentalist's worst nightmare. 

Not that Rhodey notices all this, of course. No, he just keeps staring at Tony with this sort of kicked-puppy expression, his expression brimming with regret. 

Tony sighs. "Look, it's— Maybe Yinsen'd yell at me, tell me I'm processing this shit all wrong, but I don't think I'm mad. Tired, sure. Disappointed. More than slightly worried about whether my family's tearing apart at the seams. But mad?" He shakes his head. "Not mad."

For a long time, Rhodey studies him across the desk, his lips pursed together in this worried little line. Finally, though, he asks, "You talk to Maya about a paternity test?" 

Snorting, Tony rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to keep at least two of the three kids who live with me from rattling into all their component parts, and you want me to worry about cheek swabs? Thanks, but I think—"

"You wanna know what I think?" Rhodey interrupts, his gaze just intent enough that Tony glances away. His buddy, on the other hand, leans forward, his elbows on his thighs. "I think this test scares the shit outta you. After all the time you've spent worrying about this kid, how she fits into your life? Doesn't matter what's printed at the bottom of that paper: your life's different now, thanks to her." He shrugs. "And processing that's gonna be one hell of an uphill battle."

Even with the normal office commotion right outside Tony's door—Thor shouting down the hallway, the copier beeping incessantly, at least three phones ringing in creepy horror-movie unison—the quiet that creeps in feels heavy, like a fog. It crawls into Tony's shirt and under his skin, forcing him to glance back across the desk. Even toying with a pen, Rhodey looks attentive, ready to jump right back in.

Military people, Tony thinks, and swivels his chair to glance out the window.

"You ever think about kids?" he asks, and in the reflection, he watches Rhodey lift his head. "Not just kids in general, but _your_ kids. Kids with your big smile and Danvers's terrible personality."

Rhodey snorts. "You ever gonna pay her a compliment?"

"Not if I can avoid it," Tony retorts, and he glances over his shoulder just as his friend rolls his eyes. "But your terrible taste in women aside: you ever think about it?"

They study each other for a couple seconds before Rhodey finally shrugs. "Yeah, sure, I think about it," he admits. "I just know that I'm at a place in my life where it might not happen, and I'm okay with that."

Tony nods. "I thought that, too," he replies, and turns back to the window. 

 

**Tuesday**

"You even smell good," Tess murmurs, snuggling harder into Tony's sweater. He cringes a little, even mouths a sheepish _sorry_ over at Maya, but she waves a hand as she wanders into the kitchen. Tess, on the other hand, just sighs. "I know you said not to miss you, but talking to you every day _made_ me miss you. Because I wanted to hug you, but I couldn't."

He smooths a hand over her hair. "Trust me, I know the feeling," he replies, and she wriggles away just far enough to grin at him. The joy in her face socks him in the stomach, though, and he crouches down in front of her. "Look, Tess, I don't— You're great, you know that? You and your mom, you're wonderful ladies, and I don't want any part of this to hurt. You understand that?"

Instantly, all the warmth drains out of Tess's face. "Did I do something wrong?" she asks, her bottom lip trembling. "Is it because I missed you? I didn't—"

"No, honey. That's not— No." She bites her lip, presumably to keep from crumbling right in front of him, and he plants his hands on her shoulders. Like he's grounding her, he thinks, as though he's not desperate for the same kind of comfort. Maya watches them from the doorway that separates the little apartment foyer from the kitchen.

Tony glances between them—both beautiful, both smart, both bracing for the impact—before he forces a smile. "I just thought we'd go grab some hot chocolate, yeah?" he asks, brushing Tess's hair out of her face. "Call it a little 'I'm sorry we spent a couple weeks only talking on the phone' treat. What do you say?"

Unsurprisingly, Tess's grin almost bowls him over.

Even more unsurprisingly, his heart hurts.

 

==

 

Late Wednesday night—after dinner, after homework, after Amy's usual post-bath dance party—Tony wanders downstairs to discover Jessica Jones and Jessica Drew standing in his kitchen. They're both armed with thick files and coffee mugs, and of course, they're both in deep conversation with his husband.

Not, of course, that they don't freeze up the second they spot him. No, they definitely stop talking midsentence as soon as he walks into the room, with Bruce ducking his head and Jessica Jones developing an intense interest in the abstract pattern on her coffee mug.

The other Jessica, however, just sets down her cup. "We need to talk," she says seriously.

Tony ignores the rising tide of dread curling in his stomach to raise his eyebrows. "About?"

"Everything," she replies, and her partner in crime nods.


	12. Minding (and Bridging) the Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tony and Bruce talk. Well, no, they argue, thanks in part to some interlopers named Jessica and in part to Tony's inability to keep his stupid mouth shut. Thank goodness for the counsel of reasonable friends (not, of course, that Tony will admit he thinks of them like that).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some inartful comments that could be construed as _blood family is better than found or adoptive family_. The issue works itself out, at least to some extent, but just as a warning. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who patiently wait for my chapters only to quickly work through them like the champions they are.

"Wait, circle back a hot second. Because either I'm in desperate need of a hearing aid, or you guys just said a whole string of words that can't _possibly_ go together."

The two women in his kitchen—interlopers, really, uninvited guests of the very worst kind—avert their eyes in unison, but not before Jessica Jones snorts. In disbelief, Tony thinks, and he thumps his mug down on the counter just to break the silence. Over near the breakfast nook, Bruce sips his tea, his expression totally blank. Foreign, almost, like the man's transformed into a different person in the last ten minutes.

"Told you he'd flip out," Jessica Drew mutters, her words hidden behind her coffee. "Remember the e-mail? I told you Banner'd get it, but Stark—" 

"Thinks you're both idiots?" Tony finishes. "Because trust me, truer words have literally never been spoken, especially not by you." Bruce shoots him a vaguely annoyed glance, but Tony shakes off his disapproval. "Please explain to me how stalling Amy's case is even remotely justified. Because from where I'm standing, I'm pretty sure—"

"She's dealing with intense anxiety?" Jessica Jones holds her voice pretty neutral, but between the flash of anger in her eyes and the tight line of her jaw, Tony shuts right up. She sighs and shakes her head. "Look, you met with her therapist. You know that between the termination trial and these other developments—"

"Meaning your secret second daughter," Jessica Drew fills in.

The other woman ignores her. "—she's in a bad place. And since you're not totally stupid, you probably realize she needs stability more than anything else right now. So, until we resolve this mess—"

"Okay, first: since when do we treat Amy like some kind of shrinking violet?" Tony demands, raising his hands. "You're the one who's always talking about how strong and thoughtful Amy is. You really want to bubble-wrap her now? After all this progress?" The social worker glances away, and he switches his attention over to the other Drew. "Plus," he stresses, "Bruce and I worked out a plan. Not just for Amy, but for all the kids. No reason to hit the pause button, right?"

He flicks his gaze over at Bruce, his patent-pending cue for some serious spousal support, but the guy expertly avoids eye contact. Immediately, Tony's heart sinks, and for one terrifying second, he worries about a panic attack sweeping in and knocking him on his ass.

Eventually, though, the tightness in his chest passes. "You knew," he says, and even no matter how hard he tries, the two words sound accusatory. "You knew the second her therapist blurted that diagnosis that—"

"I didn't know, but I suspected." Tony grinds his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes, but his husband just shakes his head. "Even the strongest kids struggle when the court terminates their parents' rights, Tony. Going through with the trial when she's already vulnerable— She deserves better than that. Especially with everything else going on in our lives right now."

That last sentence hangs heavy in the otherwise quiet kitchen, with the words _everything else_ looming over them like the elephant in the room. Tony walks into the living room and back again, as though pacing like a caged animal might fix the tightness in his chest. Or the tension in the other room, he amends, because he's pretty sure Jones and Drew are carrying on a conversation built entirely out of frowns.

After a minute, he sighs and drags a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm sorry," he says, walking back into the kitchen. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I know I threw these kids a curveball with the whole Tess thing, and we're still working through it. But at this point, I think of Teddy and Amy as our kids, and—" 

Jones's eyebrows skyrocket up to her hairline. "Teddy didn't tell you?" she asks.

Bruce stills, his mug almost touching his lips. "What about Teddy?"

"You don't know?" Drew questions. He shakes his head, and she tosses a glance over at Jones. "I thought you told him he needed to—"

"Have a conversation?" Jones cuts in, her tone sharp. "Because trust me, we talked about it for an hour after group last week. Ironed out a game plan and everything." She clenches her teeth. "That little shit. I'm going to—"

"Uh, not to interrupt a patented Jessica Jones warpath or anything," Tony cuts in, holding up a hand, "but what the hell's wrong with our kid?"

The ladies across the island exchange a tense look, and for a couple seconds, Tony swears the floor's about to open up and eat him whole. To eat all of them, really, because even the darkest pit beats the roiling feeling burbling in his gut. Finally, though, Jessica Jones sighs. "Teddy asked me for a change of placement," she says. "Back to the shelter or in respite with the Kaplans, just until he graduates."

The answer hits Tony in the stomach like a physical blow, hard enough and sudden enough that he actually grabs the edge of the countertop. Worse, when he glances over at Bruce, the guy's hand trembles hard enough that he lowers his mug onto the island. They gape at each other for a split second, and in that moment, Tony knows without a doubt that he's just as pale and lost-looking as his husband.

"I don't—" he starts, but his throat feels thick and dry at the same time. He clears his throat. "Did he say why?"

"Do you really need someone to explain it?" Drew challenges, and immediately, Bruce ducks his head. "You're always juggling at least a dozen balls, but lately? With Miles and Amy and Tess? He feels out of the loop, and frankly—"

"We're not seeing Tess." Tony almost flinches at the certainty in Bruce's voice, never mind the confused frown he levels at the ladies standing across from them. "We're still working out how to include her in with the rest of the family, but . . . "

Realization dawns on his face as he trails off, and Tony instantly knows without looking that both Jones and Drew are staring at him like he's grown a second head. He raises his hands and steps away from the counter. "I know you're probably imagining, like, sixteen worst-case scenarios here, Bruce, but lemme just say in my defense—"

"In your defense?" Bruce cuts in, and unlike in most their other fights, his shout is deafening. Tony cringes, his shoulders bunching in some sort of lizard-brain reflex, but the other guy just throws up his hands. "You— You promised to refocus, Tony," he accuses, jabbing a finger at him. "To worry about our kids before you worked on your relationship with Tess! And now, you're telling me you're still seeing her? Apparently often enough that our social worker knows?"

"I'm not seeing her," Tony says quickly, but Jones immediately cocks an eyebrow. He grits his teeth. "Fine, I've seen a little of her, not that anyone in this room needed to know that," he continues, "but you have to understand—"

"That you lied?" Bruce demands, and the anger in his tone shoots through Tony like a physical pain. "And, worse, that you told other people but left me—"

"Uh, just for the record? He didn't tell me anything." By the time they whip around, Jessica Jones stands, her hands raised in surrender (and clutching her scarf). "Eli Bradley lives in the Hansens' building. He saw you lurking around and put the pieces together." She pauses to cock her head at Tony. "Not subtle, by the way."

Something like dread flutters into Tony's chest—and, worse, flickers across Bruce's expression. "Does Teddy—"

Jones shakes her head. "No. Eli had the sense to bring it up to me in private before group." Bruce nods, his shoulders softening, but she barely stops long enough to toss her scarf around her neck. "And, just in case you're curious, we're going to go now. Let you work out, well, you know."

She gestures vaguely to the space between them—the chasm, Tony thinks, his heart falling—but Drew just twists to scowl at her. "And miss the shitshow?" she asks. "Sorry, but no way in _hell_ are we—"

Jones yanks her arm hard enough she almost topples over, and she stumbles a little as the social worker literally drags her toward the hallway. By the time they disappear from sight, Drew's bickering but no longer resisting. By the time the front door closes behind them, the house feels uncomfortably silent, like a mausoleum that nobody's visited in at least a decade.

At least, Tony thinks after a couple tense minutes, nobody's shouting.

For the time being, a traitorous corner of his mind points out, and he drums his fingers against the countertop instead of biting his lip hard enough to hurt.

"I—" Bruce starts eventually, but for some reason, he still hesitates, his brow creased and his lips rolled together. He shakes his head, almost like clearing the cobwebs, and tosses a glance in Tony's direction. "I think about it every day, you know that? Not just why you're hiding from the rest of us—from me, mostly—but why you won't just ask Maya for a paternity test. Just clear up this entire mess, before it—" He waves his hand, a tiny echo of some of Tony's worst ticks, and Tony resists the urge to smile. "I think about it all the time," he continues, "and no matter how hard I try, I just can't figure out what you're afraid of."

Soft as measured as Bruce keeps his voice, Tony still hears the passive-aggressive edge, still feels the tiniest twist of the knife. Somehow, though, he resists the urge to snort at as he raises his eyebrows. "We're jumping straight into this?" he demands, his hip against the counter. "Nothing about Amy or Teddy, just right to the paternity test. Do not pass go, do not collect—"

"You're procrastinating," Bruce accuses, and Tony snaps his jaw shut as he glances away. "You forget how well I know you. Because when you care about something, you dive right in, but when you're scared—"

"Oh, good, we're in _The Stark Wrangler_ territory tonight," Tony cuts in, rolling his eyes. "What next? A nice retrospective of the last eight years that highlights all the times I've been an asshole?"

"Do you want one?" Bruce retorts, and somehow, his eerie calm snuffs out the fire that brews in Tony's belly. They stare at each other for a couple seconds until Bruce shakes his head. "You deflect when you're scared," he says. "You look for distractions, ways to kill time. You dodge because you're terrified."

Tony snorts. "Yeah? Cite your source."

"Avoiding me for a week when you thought I'd ended our relationship." A prickle of guilt crawls up out of Tony's stomach, and he swallows around it even as his husband glances away. "Ducking Miles's issues to cheer him up. Never asking Clint and Phil about—"

"Hey, I asked," Tony defends, hands raised. "The guys brushed me off, sure, but I never avoided them."

"And the fact Aaron just popped back into our son's life is— What, exactly? A coincidence?" Tony shrugs, his hand dropping back to his side, but Bruce just raises his eyebrows. "You need more examples?"

Something about his tone—the sharp edge, maybe, or the hint of an accusation—shuts Tony right up. He rolls his lips together before answering, "No, thanks. I'm actually good."

"Good," Bruce echoes, sounding remarkably like when he's behind the podium in Judge Smithe's courtroom. Like a lawyer, Tony thinks, full of practiced neutrality. The way the guy nods only backs up that theory. Still, they stare at each other for a couple more seconds until he asks, "So, again: what are you afraid of?"

Tony snorts and rolls his eyes, his normal deflection, but Bruce just crosses his arms. Just waits, patience of a saint, as silence sweeps in around them. Aside from one of the dogs sighing in his sleep, the whole house feels totally still, like time literally froze all the way around them.

He draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly.

Bruce never glances away.

"I'm not—" Tony tries, but the words stick in the back of his throat, reduce him to this raspy-voiced stranger. He coughs against the false start. "The problem with Tess—with this whole situation, really, from Maya popping back up to you and the kids—is that at _best_? I'm my dad. An emotionally distant asshole disappointing his kid instead of—" The words stick again, and he works hard to recover his voice. "I'm either that guy," he continues after a second, "or I'm something else. Something a thousand times worse, bad enough that nobody's named it."

Something soft and almost unrecognizable flickers across Bruce's expression, his fingers flexing against his arms. "Because you just met her?"

"No, because I abandoned her," Tony counters, shaking his head. "Bruce, if that kid's mine, I ditched her. You know? I slept with her mom and ran the next morning, too fucked up by my own problems to even offer her a fair shake. And now—"

"You're ignoring the rest of us, instead."

Bruce keeps his voice quiet, shares the sentence like a secret, and Tony fights hard against his urge to walk out of the room. To pace, he thinks, and outrun the echo of a weeks-old conversation. Instead, though, he pushes away from the counter and walks his coffee mug over to the sink.

Behind him, Bruce sighs. "I know you're trying to do the right thing," he insists, "but think about how it feels on our end, Tony. Watching you muddle through your distractions, finding out that you're sneaking around? And not for somebody else in this family, but for a stranger?" Tony flinches, almost dropping his mug, but Bruce just shakes his head. "We both have a lot of baggage. I'm not blind to that. But if you don't start talking—"

"Yeah, except it's not like you think." Tony sets his mug down hard, almost slams it, and immediately, Bruce rolls his lips together. In a frown, actually, and Tony rakes a hand through his hair. "I know you think I'm, I don't know, devoting all my time and attention to my Tess-shaped issues, but I'm not. I promise. It's just that, you know, Tess might be my _actual_ —"

The word falls right out of his mouth, too quick and thoughtless for him to stomp down on it, and right away, Bruce just hardens. Tightens up from head to toe, his shoulders clenching as his jaw clamps down, and Tony instantly snaps his mouth shut. Too slowly, apparently, because Bruce grits his teeth. "Say it."

Tony's heart sinks. "Bruce, look—"

"Don't stop on my account," Bruce cuts in, and every word dangles like an icicle. "Finish your thought."

The air feels about ten degrees cooler as Tony glances away. For a long, tense couple seconds, neither of them moves. Honestly, Tony wonders if they're even breathing.

But then, out of nowhere, the tiny spark of anger that's lived in Tony's belly for the last couple weeks bursts into a sudden, unexpected flame. It rushes through him, sears him from the inside out, and even though he knows Bruce deserves better, he slams his hand on the counter. "You want the rest of it?" he challenges, ignoring the way his husband flinches. "You want me to spout all the shit I hate even thinking about? Because here's the ugly truth: I can't ignore Tess because she's probably my daughter. My actual, flesh-and-blood kid, the last Stark on the planet. And since she's the only one, I'm trying not to fuck it up. Okay?"

He hates every word even as they tumble out of his mouth, hates his tone and the way the kitchen echoes and the dread that bubbles in his stomach as Bruce stares him down. He's not glaring, exactly, and there's no real anger in his expression, but Tony still feels attacked. 

Except instead of huffing or snapping at him, Bruce just shakes his head. "That's what I thought."

He tries walking away after that, out of the kitchen and presumably straight up to bed, But Tony reaches out as a reflex and grabs his arm. He holds on tight, his fingers curling in Bruce's sleeve even as his husband jerks away. "You can't walk out on this conversation," Tony says. "Even if you're pissed and want to slam a door in my face. Because you don't rip my head off for refusing to talk and—"

"You want _me_ to talk?" Bruce demands, raising his eyebrows, and Tony flinches at the sharpness in his tone. "Because I'll tell you anything you want. How about the way our son worries that he'd be better off with his uncle because at least they're blood? Or about how our daughter feels like a second-class citizen to a classmate she barely knows?" Tony's grip loosens without his permission, a perfect mirror to the way his mouth drops open, and Bruce tugs his arm away. "None of that touches on Teddy, by the way. Or on how you act like you're the only one working through all this when—"

"I can't work through anything when I don't know it's happening!" Tony fires back, and he throws up his hands when Bruce glances away. "You know, you can criticize me all you want for how I'm dealing with a fucking surprise daughter, but people in glass houses definitely—"

"How?" Bruce interrupts, and for the first time all night, Tony notices the clear _hurt_ in his voice, never mind the way his jaw clenches. He rubs the side of his neck, his breaths slow and shaky, and looks back over at Tony. "Ever since Maya texted you," he says quietly, "you've lived in your head. But you're so afraid that we're going to leave you because of her—or worse, because of Tess—that you pushed us out of the way. And if you can't see that, then—"

He hesitates for a second, the word catching, and he swallows hard enough that Tony watches his throat bob. They linger like that for a long time before he asks, "What, Bruce? Your turn to finish the sentence."

Instead of snorting or rolling his eyes—instead of acting like the husband Tony knows, really—Bruce just sighs and shakes his head. "If you can't see it," he replies, "it's because you don't want to."

 

==

 

Tony leaves.

Not for good—he's not a monster, and besides, almost everybody he loves lives in that ridiculous house with the handprint turkey hanging on the front door—but he leaves for long enough for both of them to calm down. For the situation to defuse, he thinks as he jumps into the Audi, and for his heart to stop hammering against his ribs.

The roar of the engine sounds almost alien as he drives into the inky black of an almost-winter night.

He tries not to think about anything, but when his brain predictably fails him, his head swamps with a thousand different topics: Bruce, his kids, Tess, his dad, Maya, his mom, their name. For the first time in years, he remembers the stupid dreams he deferred as a fucked-up twenty-something, fantasies of some son with his grin but a more reliable everything else, the first Stark in a long line not to hurt everyone he loves.

Of course, he already scored huge with Miles and Teddy, two brilliant boys who love harder and deeper than anybody he knows (except Bruce, obviously) and who light up his life just by laughing at his stupid jokes. Factor in Amy, with her messy hair and her hilariously sassy streak, and he's already the luckiest guy on the planet. Long-lost children need not apply.

But the part of him that never grew up, that college-aged narcissist that lives deep in his heart— that guy remembers, and tonight, he ran his mouth like an idiot.

The more things change, Tony thinks, and he snorts at himself as he pulls onto the interstate.

He circles the city in what feels like an endless loop, the lights of some of the taller buildings (the Stark Industries Tower included) twinkling like stars in the dark. He listens to an NPR newscast and some classic rock, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel until they almost hurt, he pulls up Bruce's cell phone number on his Bluetooth before exiting back to the main screen. He imagines his husband alone in their bed, staring at the slightly uneven ceiling with their whole conversation—blood relatives and radio silences and changed placements all included—running through his head.

Then, he thinks about losing Teddy, and he slaps the wheel hard enough that the horn triggers.

He drives for miles, one of only a couple cars on the road, the night threatening to swallow him and his stupidity whole.

And the longer he drives, the more he feels totally alone. 

 

==

 

"Uncle Tony!" Dot shrieks, her desperate hug almost knocking both of them into the nearest wall. "I haven't seen you in forever, and I missed you!"

Ever the master of reality, Bucky crosses his arms. "You saw him on Sunday."

Dot shoots him the world's most withering child-glare. "No, I saw Amy on Sunday. Uncle Tony just watched us." She waits for him to sigh before tipping her head up to beam at Tony. "This time, I'm just seeing you. And that's good, because I missed you."

Tony forces a smile as he runs fingers through her bath-damp hair. "No place I'd rather be, kiddo."

Bucky cocks his head at that, his expression brimming with the kind of silent judgment Tony usually expects from the guy's husband, but Dot ignores all of it to snuggle her face into his sweater. He hoists her up the second he ditches his coat, because basking in the smell of kid shampoo feels a whole lot easier than facing his problems (or her parents) head-on.

"We need coffee?" Bucky asks, still hovering by the front door.

Tony shrugs. "If you're in it for the long haul with me, sure," he replies, and Bucky studies him for a couple seconds before wandering down the hallway.

By the time Steve emerges from the kitchen, all decked out in his pajamas like the main character in a Lexus-branded Christmas commercial, Tony's on the couch with Dot, reviewing her math homework. "And in this one, you count the different fruit," she explains, gesturing to the terrible clipart. "Because lots of first graders don't count very good yet. Or read. Or—"

Steve snorts. "And you're perfect at every subject?" he challenges, and she wrinkles her nose just as he sweeps her off the couch. She squeals, kicking and wriggling as he drapes her over his shoulder, and he grins. "Sorry, but homework time's over. You're going to bed."

"But Uncle Tony's here," Dot complains. "I can't go to sleep when he's over. He's _company_."

"Technically, I'm a rotten interloper with no sense of timing," Tony corrects, and she twists just enough to peer at him. He raises his hands in defeat. "Make you a deal. You go to bed, no complaining or fighting, and I'll come over some other night. We'll do homework and dessert, just the two of us."

She narrows her eyes. "Promise? Because sometimes you forget you said that and bring Amy or Miles and—"

"Promise." He draws a sloppy X across his chest, and she beams at him. "Now, seriously, go to bed. I'm only here to talk about boring work stuff with your parents, anyway."

Bucky pauses, one foot on the bottom stair, and blinks at him. "Work? Really?"

Tony shrugs. "I'm always working on something," he defends, and his buddies roll their eyes as they drag their reluctant kid to bed.

Within about a minute, though, the quiet crawls under his skin, itchy like a sudden rash or, worse, a bunch of hives. As a solution, he pokes around the living room instead of sitting still, scanning book spines and rearranging Barbie dolls like somebody hired him for that exact purpose. The whole thing reminds him of something out of an after-school special, really; between the dust on the mantle, the big family portrait on the wall, and the collection of random toys and crayons dumped in various corners, the place looks about a thousand times homier than the old apartment.

"Yeah, like Steve ever needed to find his footing," Tony mumbles, and he loses a couple minutes to rearranging the magazines ( _Sports Illustrated_ and some kid-friendly nature thing) on the coffee table.

The guys skip right past him when they wander back down from Dot's room, and Tony knows without trying to eavesdrop that they're talking about him in the kitchen. Whispering, really, their voices low enough that the heater drowns them out the second in kicks on, and Tony strains for a second or two before dropping back onto the couch. When they come in with the coffee, he feels a little like a guy in a waiting room, about to hear bad news.

Then, he remembers the waiting room from back when his mom died, and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Turns out," he says, unable to stomp down on the hint of hysteria that bubbles up out of his lungs, "there's a very real possibility that I'm an asshole."

"Wait, that's news?" Bucky sputters the second he asks, probably thanks to a beefy elbow digging straight into his gut, and the familiarity of the whole slapstick routine almost coaxes a smile out of Tony. "Sorry, Stevie, but I said soon as you started working at Cramer and March that you'd landed an asshole boss. Glad to know he figured it out."

"You know, I'm pretty sure we're not revisiting my internship," Steve replies, and his shoulder brushes against Tony's when he sits down. "You want to talk about it?"

Tony snorts. "Why, do I look like somebody who needs the full force of your judgment face steering me back toward the light?" When he glances over, Steve cocks his eyebrows, a patented Rogers challenge. "Lemme guess: you already worked out my sudden appearance on your doorstep. Maybe because my husband called you? No, too obvious, and last I checked, we don't live in a cheap novel. You just worked it all out on your own."

"Well, I _was_ your intern," Steve jokes, and he grins when Tony rolls his eyes. He also watches Tony like the world's most unnerving hawk. "You fought with Bruce," he guesses, and Tony glances at his coffee. "Maybe about all the kids, but probably about Tess."

"I voted definitely on the Tess thing," Bucky pipes up. He lingers in the hall, his shoulder propped against the doorway. "You guys work it out pretty quick when you're fighting about the normal kids. Tess, though . . . "

He whistles, long and low, and Tony scowls. "Glad to know I'm that transparent," he grumbles, and the guy shrugs. "And since lying clearly isn't an option here: yeah, we fought. About all the kids, Tess included. Except before I really tracked it, we'd stopped talking about the kids at all, and it kind of—" He pauses just long enough to wave a hand. "—spiraled."

"Because of Tess?" Steve asks.

Tony shakes his head. "Because of me. Well, technically, me and my untrustworthy mouth, never mind this part of me that just keeps—" 

He heaves out a breath, unwilling (or maybe just plain _unable_ ) to repeat one of the worst sentences of his whole life, but Steve and Bucky never really glance away. They barely blink, stubborn as a pair of oxen, and Tony swigs his coffee. The delay tactic works, too, because Bucky raises his eyebrows. "What'd you say?"

Tony swallows hard enough to hurt. "What?" he asks.

"You said something to Bruce, right? Something bad enough you drove here instead of going home." Steve nods as his husband pins Tony with his gaze. "Can't help you 'til we know what you said."

Tony rolls his eyes. "I didn't come here for help."

"Yeah, sure," Bucky counters, "but you didn't come for coffee, either."

Tony scowls, but no matter how hard he grits his teeth or grips his coffee mug, the scene never changes. He never flies back in time, he never escapes their scrutiny, and in the end, he sighs and abandons his cup on the table. "My dad, he— Well, calling the guy an asshole sounds a little like setting fire to his grave, but he definitely never earned a Father of the Year mug, you know? Never took an interest, far as I remember, never saw me as anything but this thorn in his side that just—" His voice sticks a little, stealing his breath, and he runs his fingers through his hair. "Point is, he taught me a whole lot about emotional distance and pretty much nothing about raising kids. And by time I hit college, I decided that I'd treat my kid different. I teach him—or her, never ruled out a girl—how to be decent. Be proud of the family name, you know?"

Steve purses his lips. "If you're worried about being a good father—"

"See, that's the thing," Tony interrupts, twisting enough to glance at him. "I'm not talking about my actual kids. Those kids? They're great. They're better than in my wildest dreams. No, I'm talking about some, I don't know, hypothetical kid. Sprung from my loins."

"Your version of Dot," Bucky suggests.

"Yeah. Just, you know, without involving Bruce's cousin, because I'm pretty sure Jen'd rather light me on fire than pop out my kid." Both guys roll their eyes, and for a second, Tony seriously considers a smile. "I dreamed about this kid for a long time," he continues after a couple seconds. "What they'd look like, how I'd raise them, the whole nine yards. But like you both know, my life spun out a long time before that ever happened, and I . . . "

He shakes his head as he reaches for his coffee, and Steve shoots him a tiny smile. "You figured you'd never be a parent," he guesses.

"And without Bruce and Miles, I wouldn't be," Tony admits. His buddy nods, his eyes dropping to his own mug, and Tony scrubs a hand over his face. "Turns out, though, that the kid I dreamed about? She exists. She's sassy and smart and a whole lot like her mom, and I—" The words tremble again, and he grits his teeth. "I'm not an idiot. I know we need the paternity test. But it just feels like the last nail in that coffin, you know?"

Silence sweeps in after that, heavy and totally without his permission, and when Tony steels himself enough to glance over at the guys, they're— Well, actually, he's not sure how to describe their long glances and raised eyebrows, but he definitely rolls his eyes. "Ask the question," he instructs, and Steve immediately flinches like a guilty puppy. "I mean, I'm okay with sitting in silent judgment and watching the two of you talk without opening your mouths, but if I can fill in a couple blanks . . . "

He gestures in front of him, a sort of _bring it on_ motion, and Bucky shrugs. Steve, always the paragon of unnecessary politeness, rolls his lips together. "Do you— Are you saying you want a baby?"

"What?" An uninvited panic crawls up Tony's throat, but true to form, both the guys just shrug at him. "Absolutely not. Never in a million years. A baby'd destroy our lives, and frankly, I've had enough of that shit this fall to last about nineteen lifetimes." He shakes his head, acutely aware of his friends' gazes—and, worse, aware of how the mere thought of another new kid in their lives raises his blood pressure. "It's not a baby thing," he says after a couple seconds, his fingers drumming against his mug. "If anything, it's a _me_ thing. Because the more I think about it, the more I don't want to be the last one. I don't want the legacy to end on an egomaniac who almost blew up his damn heart before he figured out how to be a person."

Bucky frowns as he crosses his arms. "You don't think your kids'll carry you with them? Pay the family line forward or whatever?"

"No, I know they will, but—" Tony's stomach swims, a terrible sensation, and he stares down at his coffee instead of meeting Bucky's gaze. "A man's not dead if his name's still spoken. And sometimes, I can't help but wonder . . . "

"If you'll end up somebody's vague memory?" Bucky asks, and Tony shrugs instead of answering. The guy nods a little, silent as an assassin as he walks over and perches on the arm of the couch. Right next to his husband, Tony realizes, but not really close enough to touch. "My folks, we— Struggled, I guess. Never really found our footing. And even though we talk and everything now, I still don't think we ever _see_ each other." Steve shifts enough to squeeze his knee, and for a second, Bucky almost smiles. "Most the time," he continues, "I say we picked my cousin as Dot's mom because we love her, you know? Like a sister. But the rest of the time, I wonder if it wasn't a way to start over. To reboot my family from the ground up."

Tony raises his eyebrows. "That the plan for the second kid, too?"

"Maybe," Steve replies, but Bucky just stares at his hands. They spend a couple seconds like that, frozen in place and suspiciously silent, before Steve sighs and rests his elbows on his thighs. "Look, Tony, I can't answer all those big questions," he says. "Maybe everything you feel about your family name, about your legacy— Maybe that fades over time. Maybe you carry it with you to your grave. Hell, maybe there's some middle ground in between those two extremes."

Bucky snorts. "Real uplifting."

"Really not finished," Steve counters, and his husband's mouth twists into a smirk. "I don't know how you deal with these feelings," he continues, "but here's what I do know: your family, the one you ditched to drive over here? They love you. No reservations, no second thoughts. You're the center of their world. And even if the fact that they're an Altman, a Morales, and a Jimenez means you're the last Stark, I promise that they'll never let your name go unspoken. Same as Dot, P.J., and whatever other kid we end up with."

Tony rolls his eyes a little, mostly at the mention of his tiny barnacle, but his throat feels thick all of a sudden. Like he's fighting off a wave of emotions, he realizes, and he ducks his head as he works to swallow around it. Steve smiles at him, clapping him on the shoulder, and they sit like that until Tony's ready to trust his voice.

You know, a good couple minutes.

"Somebody's gonna end up with a broken heart," Tony points out eventually, his gaze flicking between the two men. "No matter the outcome, whether Tess belongs to me or, I don't know, some other boyfriend Maya's forgotten all these years later, it's gonna hurt. And I'm sick to death of the people I care about hurting."

"So do something about it," Bucky says. "You fucked up, right? Work on fixing the problem. Talking through this shit with us really won't do much for your family. You gotta find something else. Bridge the gap."

Tony cocks his head at the guy. "Because it's that easy?"

"Maybe," Bucky replies, complete with one of his noncommittal little shrugs. "And if it's not, trying's still better than agonizing about it on our couch."

"It's a good couch," Steve observes.

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Still not sure why I picked you over Maggie from seventh period," he grumbles, and Steve grins.

 

==

 

The next morning, when Bruce wanders downstairs and into the kitchen, Tony's already waiting.

He stops where the carpet from the living room meets the kitchen tile, his bare toes curling against the cold, and for a second, they just stare at each other. Like they're committing this moment to memory, one where Tony sits at the kitchen nook with two cups of coffee and Bruce blinks his sleep-hazy eyes.

His hair stands up in eight different directions and his pajama pants ride low on his hips.

He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful person Tony knows.

"Coffee?" Tony asks, gesturing to the mugs, and Bruce hesitates for a moment before he nods. He slides onto the other bench slowly, almost like he's bracing for another fight, and right away, Tony hates himself. Not for fighting through his messed-up emotions, but for trying to handle every last bit of it alone.

Trying to protect his family by wrapping them in a bubble, he thinks, and by sleeping on the couch when he slunk back in from Steve and Bucky's.

Still, when he hands Bruce his usual coffee mug, his shoulders miraculously soften.

"I owe you about a thousand explanations," Tony admits a couple minutes later, after Bruce's rubbed enough sleep out of his eyes to meet his gaze head-on. "Not apologies, necessarily—Yinsen's big on recognizing the validity of your emotions, whatever that means—but reasons why I've been fucking up left, right, and center. Because I've made a lot of decisions without you lately, and that's not fair. Not when I promised that we'd be partners instead of, well, whatever this is."

He gestures to the space between them, a little flap of his hands, and Bruce snorts. "I'm pretty sure this is exactly what I signed up for."

"You know, now that I think about it, it's amazing it took five whole years for me to fall for your charms." Bruce smirks at that, his laugh lines bunching, and Tony immediately reaches across the table to grab one of his hands. "I want to talk about it," he promises. "I want to stop, I don't know, hiding or running or whatever you wanna call the last six weeks. But even more than that? I want to _fix_ it. For all of us."

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "You sound like you have a plan."

"Only if you're interested in one," Tony responds, and slides his husband their iPad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, my January is looking like a monster, so I think I'm just going to take my lumps and say: expect the next chapter in four weeks instead of three. If it is done earlier, I will surprise you with it. My new schedule is a lot better, and I hope to have my butt back in gear a couple weeks into the new year.
> 
> In the meantime, I've been churning out some daily holiday drabbles. Read them [here](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/tagged/mpu-holiday-event)! I will post them as part of the MPU collection after they're complete.


	13. ANNOUNCEMENT (NOT UPDATE)

First and foremost, because I don't want to bury the lead: I'm taking a writing hiatus.

With that out of the way:

I feel terrible just writing this post, never mind putting it out into the world. The only reason I'm putting it up on here as an update is because I know some readers don't follow my tumblr, and I didn't want to leave this as a mystery. But the truth is that, right now, I need a break. Somewhere in the last couple months, writing's felt like this overwhelming obligation more than a hobby, something I need to do because of deadlines and expectations. I don't feel inspired, I feel forced.

Obviously, that's not your fault. Honestly, I've felt this on and off for a while. Blame my job (both the old and new, honestly). Blame my psoriatic arthritis, which sometimes leaves me in "swamp creature" mode. Blame the season, my social obligations, or the insufficient hours in the day. Either way, I need to hit the pause button.

I promise this break is only temporary. Presumptions isn't pefect, but I'm proud of it. I want to finish this story and tell all the other tales that are waiting in the wings. But the problem with the last couple chapters—and, really, most of Sua Sponte—was that I let the schedule kick the story's ass. I worried about output, not what the characters wanted to tell me. My writing suffered because of it.

(I really like Chapter 12. Even during the parts that hurt, Chapter 12 turned out pretty much just like I imagined.)

I never wanted to end up in a place where I needed a break in the middle of a story. But I think Chapter 12 is a good place to pause, and more than that, I think all of us—me, you, and the characters—deserve a little more breathing room. I'll keep you updated through tumblr, and when I'm ready to update again, I'll remove this non-chapter and replace it. Either way: I already think I know how the rest of the story's going to look. But for the first time in a long time, I'm going to let the story tell me, not the other way around.


End file.
